


A Court of Shame and Virtue

by teaseawrites



Series: A Series of Birth and Beginnings [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Healing, I hate the stuff Tamlin has done but really want him to improve so have this, M/M, Mates, Mating Bond, Mild Smut, Post-A Court of Frost and Starlight, Redemption, Slow Burn, Smut, The Dawn Court (ACoTaR), The Spring Court (ACoTaR)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 61
Words: 175,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaseawrites/pseuds/teaseawrites
Summary: After the destruction of the Spring Court and all that followed, Tamlin has given up. The last thing he expects to find in the wake of war is a mate—especially not one who wants nothing to do with their mating bond.In which Tamlin has a motivator to keep going on and to become a better person after all is said and done.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Morrigan/Original Character(s), Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s), Thesan (ACoTaR)/Other(s)
Series: A Series of Birth and Beginnings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846618
Comments: 624
Kudos: 669
Collections: Fanfics de ACOTAR





	1. Aurora

**Author's Note:**

> Tamlin doesn't need a girlfriend, we all know that. He needs a therapist. But after the war, after everything, Tamlin has nobody left... and there's no hope of him getting better if he's left to rot alone. He needs a friend first and foremost, one who can make him see that he was wrong and what he needs to do to improve.
> 
> I very much want to see Tamlin become better and make amends, so this is my attempt at doing that. I hope you guys enjoy it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurora winnows to the Spring Court accidentally and meets the beast that resides there.

Winnowing isn’t as fun as it sounds.

That’s the only thought racing through my head as my body flickers between planes, unable to settle on a location where I might find some rest. I’m tired, I realise. More than tired. And the constant jumping between realities, stirring whatever awaits in the darkness of the other side, isn’t helping. Couldn’t Father just give me a year of freedom, a year of peace following so much destruction at the hands of the evil that lurked Under the Mountain?

High Lord Thesan, of course, has duties. As his daughter, I do too. I just wish that I didn’t. He says these lessons are important, that I must desperately catch up on all I missed from my days... under there. But all it seems to do these days is make me want to sleep. 

It’s not that I’m unhappy—unhappiness seems a far way off now that I’m well and truly free. No more must I lie in fear in my cell wondering when I might see another person—and whether it’ll be _her._ But I’d be lying if I said that the transition from only having only my thoughts as company to being surrounded by an entire court, people who whisper and cannot hide their stares as they gawk at my scarred wings, was easy.

Lessons are the only time I unbind them. My wings. Otherwise, lessons are too suffocating; otherwise, I prefer to keep them hidden. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my scars, of what I went through, of what I had to endure… it’s the look of pity in their eyes when their gaze shifts from my wings and then to my gaze. I hate it. I do not need their pity.

But as I winnow unintentionally in the middle of the air, flickering in between reality still, I’m glad I kept them unbound this time. If I hadn’t had them, if I had fallen to the ground and met my death at a mere seventy five years old over something so trivial…

_That’s enough winnowing for today._

I spread my wings, lift my head to the sky, and take a deep breath. I’m comforted by the soft burn that accompanies the movement of my wings, letting myself adjust. I realise, as I do so, that I have no idea where I am. I’ve never been here before—I’ve never been anywhere, really, outside of the Dawn Court and that dark place Under the Mountain. _Where am I?_

The water smells sweet here. It’s in the air, bringing with it the promise of laughter and romance. But below…

The expanse of trees lurk rather than sway in the breeze. In fact, there _is_ no breeze. Everything around me is still: the birds do not chirp, nor fly or hunt; the trees beckon me towards them like a dark vacuum, as if the darkness that waits within will be a comfort more than a menace.

I stretch my gaze farther, searching for any sign of life. Or where I am. Anyone who can winnow or summon my tutor… that’s who I’m looking for.

I _could_ winnow back now, or at least try. But what if I winnow into the middle of the ocean? Swimming isn’t my forte, especially not when the ivory feathers of my wings get so heavy with water. No… my best option is to find help. As embarrassing as it may be.

I fly a little more, wanting to get as far away from those woods as I can before landing. By the time I spy what looks like an old manor house, the day is threatening to turn into night. I let my wings stop beating, pausing, assessing my options. If I had been going faster, I would’ve missed the grandiose structure: I have the feeling that once it was beautiful, that once it had teemed with life and spirit, but now…

The place is silent. Still, just like everything else around me. But it’s my best hope at getting back before it gets dark.

With a shift in my position, my wings give off a gentle _swoop_ sound as I float to the grassy ground below me.

There is no change, even as my bare feet touch the soft bed of green. I fold my wings behind me, although they’re still visible due to my slender form. Nothing stirs. Nothing comes roaring out of the large front doors of the house, those large…

Scarred doors.

_Oh, Heavens._

Quietly, timidly, I call out. “Hello?”

No, that was stupid. Who’s going to be lingering around here? Likely the sort of creature I don’t want to meddle with, no doubt. But the doors are left ajar, which could mean that the creature was trying to get in and couldn’t… 

The slits in my ivory-and-gold dress make it easy for me to pull my dagger from its sheath at my thigh. I clutch it close to my chest; it’s not wise, not if I need to suddenly fight somebody—or something—but it makes me feel a little better. As ridiculous as it sounds, I’d done the same with my own arm when I had to sleep in that cold cell all alone.

I approach the house. And then I approach the house a little faster. The sight of the rose bushes, tangled, likely once alive and _thriving,_ unsettles me more than I would like to admit. Even the grass here is yellowing in patches, a sight I’ve always hated to see.

The claw marks at the doors should be enough to turn me away. Instead, I slip inside. Even the silence inside is overwhelming.

“Hello?” I call out, quieter this time. I just want to go home—go home to Cora, my best friend, and to my guard, Aidos, who will likely give my tutor a butchering for forcing me to do this alone. Undistracted, he had said. How was I supposed to focus when thinking about all the _other_ things I could be doing? Cora had wanted to go flying… 

No, no, no. I never should’ve come in here, I realise, descending further into the manor. Furniture is scattered all around; tapestries are torn. One wrong turn could have me falling, tumbling right back into the darkness of the cell Amarantha had kept me in, no chance of dawn or day in sight…

I can smell the tang of blood somewhere, although it’s animal, not Fae. That should reassure me, but it doesn’t: it just tells me that whatever had killed it is likely too feral to tell right from wrong. A predator without a mind that surpasses the animalistic urges to feed, fight and… well, the other, crude one that begins with an F.

I come to a stop in a long hallway, considering turning back when a noise behind me has me gasping. I spin, pulling my dagger from the comfort of my arms and into a battle-ready stance that Aidos has been forcing me to perfect over the past few months. Even still, my heart is beating like a bird mid-escape from its cage—

“Get out.” A growl sounds behind me.

I spin, and this time, I spin in the right direction. 

It’s just a man. Another Fae, like me. Only he’s full-blooded; my ears are just a little pointier, slenderer, taking on the appearance of the Peregryn that reside in my father’s court. My father’s mate tells me that I shouldn’t be ashamed of them, along with a lot of other encouraging things. I wish I could remember the other half of them now. I’d certainly like one about being courageous.

The Fae standing before me, however, doesn’t look… _that_ intimidating. If anything, I feel a little worried for him. Even despite the darkness in this grim hallway, I can see that his golden hair is matted, his clothes hang too heavy on his frame, and his eyes…

His eyes look like they should have housed a thousand lifetimes’ worth of spirit. Joy. Laughter. They should be filled with the things that accompany Springtime, which the green of his eyes might have once personified if there had been any life to them at all.

Springtime…

High Lord Tamlin.

High Lord of the Spring Court.

 _Disgraced_ Tamlin.

“I—” I stammer, swallowing thickly. My hand moves to my chest, an attempt to tame the thudding of my heart. “I’m sorry.”

The High Lord just stares at me, a flicker of anger in his green eyes, and then—nothing.

“What are you doing here.”

“I’m... lost.”

“Lost.”

“Yes,” I respond. I force myself to raise my head higher, feigning confidence. “That’s what I said.”

He stares a moment longer, his eyes roaming over me. There’s something unreadable in his eyes, something distant, and it makes me want to know more. But I know in the same instant that this is a foolish idea—I’ve heard of all the things High Lord Tamlin has done. A lot of them were in regards to that Feyre girl—no, the High Lady of the Night Court.

“You’re not from here,” he observes. With my wings, isn’t it obvious? It’s not a question, but he waits for an answer anyway. He says nothing else, only stares at me with that steely, half-caring gaze. I realise he’s waiting for an explanation.

I swallow, averting my gaze. “I... was practicing. Training. My, um, winnowing skills aren’t...” I try to find the words. “Father says my skills have become lax and I must train more. So that was what I was doing. But it went wrong.”

He eyes the golden headband of light rays atop my head, the gold flecks in my sandy hair, my pink rose hair pins, my gold-and-ivory dress… 

The High Lord says, “Dawn Court.”

I swallow thickly. I want to leave. “Yes.”

He must make the connection in his head, because there’s a flicker or something in his green eyes. “Thesan’s daughter.”

“My name is Aurora, thank you very much,” I snap back.

Something glimmers in his eyes and I am afraid, momentarily, that he might lash out. I suddenly realise that this man before me looks very much like a wounded animal; he’s given up, but might not be prone to an outburst if pushed too far. But as we gaze upon each other, quiet and silent as our surroundings, I realise that the look in his eyes hadn’t been anger. Was it… amusement?

“Aurora, then,” he says, and then he makes a movement that makes me clutch my dagger tighter—he moves towards me and then past me, as if I’m not just an intruder in his home. As if he doesn’t care what happens. “Get out.”

For a few seconds, I merely stare, my lips parted in surprise… and then I move to follow him. “Wait!” 

He does not wait. In fact, he keeps walking. I try to follow even despite the furniture strewn across the floor, which he seems to do expertly, as if he’s used to climbing over such obstacles. Then again, he _is_ taller than me… 

“I don’t know _how_ to leave. I can’t winnow!”

“So fly.”

“It’s too far to fly,” I insist, narrowly avoiding tripping over some sort of canvas on the floor. I avert my eyes briefly to the ground, careful to watch where I’m going as I follow him. “I haven’t gotten the strength back in my wings yet. And after what happened Under the—”

I realise I’ve made a mistake as soon as the High Lord comes to a sudden stop. _Stupid girl,_ I hear Amarantha hiss at me, plucking my feathers one by one as punishment for a misdeed I can only vaguely remember these days. Of course it was a mistake to talk about that time. I didn’t see what happened, was hardly allowed to leave the dark of my cell even for the Trials, but I’d heard of Amarantha's antics. Of course I’d heard. And when Father had come to rescue me… 

“The dress,” Tamlin says. He looks over his shoulder at me. “I heard about that.” 

I wince at the thought. My feathers, _my_ wings, destroyed so that Amarantha could harvest them for a simple dress as if they weren’t a part of me, a _sacred_ part of me, as if my wings hadn’t been my prize and joy before terrible, terrible Amarantha… 

“I don’t like to think about it,” I say quietly, so low that I’m surprised he can hear.

He offers me his hand.

I hesitate. Those claw marks on his front door… had they come from a monster, or from him? I hate to say that I’m searching for anything sharp, anything concealed that might hurt me…

“What are you, ah, doing?” I ask, which seems like a very silly question to ask indeed.

“Taking you home.”

“Are you… are you sure?”

The High Lord’s brow furrows at me. “It’s just a winnow away.”

I swallow again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Nor do I need yours.”

I force an intake of breath as I glance over him. If anyone needs pity out of the two of us, it’s him. But is that now how the people at the Dawn Court see me? My feathers have grown back, but there are still some patchy areas—patchy areas where the scars are very much visible. My scars are physical, but this High Lord’s…

I can see them in his eyes. The weight of his sins. The repercussions of his actions. And yet even so, I’m not entirely sure he’s sorry for what he’s done—I think he’s sorry for how it turned out for him in the end.

I want to leave. I do not want to let this place suck me up like it has him. Slowly, very slowly, I move to sheathe my dagger back in its strap at my thigh.

I take his hand, his fingers calloused against my soft ones. And when he winnows us away from that place, I am not upset to be leaving.

I can’t say the same, however, for how I feel about what this High Lord has let himself become.


	2. Tamlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamlin says goodbye to Aurora and later receives an unexpected gift.

I winnow us to the edge of the Dawn Court where Thesan won’t see.

The last thing I need is the High Lord of the Dawn Court seeing me with his prized daughter, the leverage over him that Amarantha had clutched so tight in those grim years. I avoid looking at those wings as we fizzle into existence, although she’s holding me tight as if she might fall. Momentarily I wonder just how old she is, but a deeper, darker part of me simply doesn’t care. There isn’t a lot I care about anymore—if anything at all.

I’d winnowed her here out of pity. That was all. Nothing more.

“You can fly from here, I presume,” I drawl. 

In the distance, I can see the tips of the Dawn palace’s roofs; even far away, the structure glimmers with the light of a thousand sunrises. I spy the countless balconies, pillars, and flowers basking in the sun, although given the time of year, there isn’t much of that to go around. Where Aurora and I stand, however, all that surrounds us is nature: there’s a stream not too far away, though there are no trees here. Just plains and plains of grass.

“Yes,” she answers, stepping away hurriedly, as if she only now realised how close we were. I’m not sure whether to be offended or amused. 

_Let her think what she wants of me,_ I think to myself. _Everybody else seems to do the same._

But there’s a hint of a soft smile on her lips as she looks at me, although it’s tinged with nerves. Her head dips in a bow, a movement of respect I haven’t seen in quite some time. She reminds me of a swan, her elegant neck dipped with her pale wings folded behind her. 

“Thank you, Lord Tamlin,” she says kindly, politely, like a well-trained puppy. 

Aurora Morningsworn turns her head to the palace, away from the gurgling of the stream and the brilliant grassy hills around us, and lets her wings flare.

They’re beautiful, but the sight of wings, lately, has me on edge. Her white feathers ripple with every movement of her body, the muted sunlight glinting off of them with ease. She belongs here—she belongs in a place of light and bounty. But those wings… 

They seem heavy, and not in the physical sense. No—not heavy. Mature. Her frame is so small, so delicate and youthful, as if she might break at any moment. Patches of bare skin peek from under the cover of the feathers that have grown back since the Mountain, and under, jagger scars lie prominent. In that moment, I know just why they look so heavy on her: it’s the same reason why my own decisions weigh so heavily on me.

She turns to look at me and gives me one last smile, although it falters when she finds my gaze on her wings. I force myself to meet her gaze and then step back, giving her a polite nod.

“Goodbye, Aurora,” I tell her, my throat strangely tight. _Why?_ “Good luck with your lessons.”

She nods, her lips a tight smile, and in the next moment, she’s soaring into the heavens.

I watch her fly away until she becomes nothing more than a dot in the sky, and then I winnow back to my den of despair.

***

The days pass in a blur.

Occasionally, Lucien visits; occasionally, _he_ visits too, though thankfully less frequently. But at the end of the day the sky still turns black, the world goes on, and with each passing day I am reminded that there is really no need for me to be here at all.

What would happen to my court if I were to disappear into nothingness?

On nights like these, I contemplate that thought. I even like that thought. The stars above are my enemy and yet I stare at them, unblinking and sleepless, from the library, the one room that I have not yet lay to ruin. _Are you looking at these same stars now, Feyre?_ Night after night after night, I wonder how _she_ can look up at those stars and feel at home. All they do for me is muster up a feeling of emptiness, of hopelessness, a reminder of all that I have lost and all that was taken. Sometimes, I still don’t believe that the two of them can be happy together. 

Rhysand seems fit to remind me every waking moment that they very much are.

I grimace at the thought, glancing behind me at the large expanse of the library. This room is a reminder of all that I have done. It is where I lost my temper with Feyre; it is where Lucien ushered her out, injured; where my green eye had turned red; where the beginning of the end had begun.

It will remain untouched. Something in me tells me that it must be that way.

I stay here all night, watching the stars, waiting for the day to come—for the safe haven of the dawn. When the sun begins to glow over the treetops and I can finally breathe, finally move without my head spinning, I make to go outside. 

Usually, I take the back doors or the servants' exits. I don’t like to look at the dead rose bushes, the tangle of thorns and roots in those once lush gardens. But with the sun rising in the way that it is, I want nothing more than to feel the heat on my skin. To feel _something._

Feeling much of anything except emptiness has been a problem as of late.

I’m not sure how long it takes me to reach the front door; these days I lose track of time easily. But when I slip from betwixt the solid doors--an easy feat considering how slim I am now--the last thing I expect is for my foot to bump against something, to almost knock whatever it is down the steps.

My temper flaring at the inconvenience, I look down at my feet and find… a hamper?

Golden apples, peaches, all kinds of fruit, all spread out delicately and precisely on top of a bed of gold leaf flakes. Three pink roses are placed neatly around as decorations, just like the ones that had adorned Thesan’s daughter’s hair.

 _Aurora._ Had she done this?

A letter lies atop the goods in the basket, yellowed parchment sealed with gold wax. It _must_ be her. Why would she do this?

I consider going back inside to open it, to perhaps stare at the food inside as I do any time the topic of _eating_ comes up, but the sun calls to me, beckons me. I know what I look like: I know about my matted hair and the void in my eyes and the way my skin shines pale instead of golden. I don’t want the sun because I want to feel better. I want it so that I can feel its warmth, a missing lover’s embrace.

I take a breath. No, sitting to see the dawn as it stretches over the water will be… nice.

Like a beast in a rage, I swoop the hamper up, slam the door behind me, and head off into the woods.

***

My movements feel wrong—are those nerves I feel?—as I settle down on the bank of grass before the beach, the sky pink and gold with the rising sun. I place the hamper beside me and ensure that it will not fall down the curve of the hill I’m seated upon before I reach for the letter. I examine the front, my name written in gold cursive, wondering whether I truly want to read whatever is inside. Whether I can be bothered. Whether it’s worth it.

_Coward. Open it. She’s just a girl—if it even is who you think it is._

I grumble to myself as I open the letter with a singular claw, squinting to read the seemingly perfect words on the parchment. A quick glance down to the name at the bottom tells me that the letter is in fact from who I think it is.

_High Lord Tamlin,_

_I write to you with the most sincere of hopes that you are well and happy._

I stifle a laugh. If only she knew… still, I force myself to dig deeper into the contents of the letter.

_I must thank you once more for helping me to return home the other day. I’m sorry if I intruded upon your home; Aidos insists that I will not attend lessons without him now. I assure you that I will endeavour not to intrude upon your court unless invited, for I do not wish to cause unnecessary unrest upon my arrival. I am sure you are a very busy man._

_Who is Aidos?_ I rub my head, forcing myself to read the rest of the letter even as the lines blur. 

_I have extended this hamper to you as a representation of my thanks. If you would like, and you are not too busy, I would love to know what you think of the peaches. I am growing them myself, you see, and I am terribly concerned that everybody around me is too terrified of the repercussions of telling me the truth to do so. Who better to ask than the High Lord of the Spring Court, where the seeds of all harvests are sown?_

_I am sure that this letter to you will seem trivial, especially considering your undoubtedly busy day to day life. I simply could not, however, leave our meeting as it first was. Can you imagine if we met far down the line at some sort of ball? What a terrible first meeting story that would be._

_In summary, I suppose, I must say to you that I wish you well, and I hope that this letter did not cause you gloom. Hopefully it had the opposite effect. I am well aware that I have been writing for far too long now, so… High Lord, be happy, and be well._

_Write to me any time you wish!_

_Yours brightly,_

_Aurora Morningsworn_

Yours brightly. Yours _brightly._ Such innocence, such… kindness.

I clench the letter in my hand. I could simply not respond; I could pretend that this never happened, and if we were to meet at such a ball she mentioned in her letter, I could pretend it was our first meeting. It doesn’t matter, anyway: nobody will be inviting _me_ to any gatherings any time soon.

But if I could do that, if I could simply not respond, why does the idea of doing so feel so… wrong?

Sighing, I tilt my head up towards the sun, looking to its rays as a welcome distraction.

Dawn feels mighty warm indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you did, what did you like best about it? I'd love to hear!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	3. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurora receives a letter and gets a surprise while reading it.

“Rora, are you even paying attention?”

I can only just hear Aidos’ voice over my train of thought. 

Had sending that letter been a silly thing to do? I’ve been worrying about it ever since I sent it, ever since days passed with no response. _Maybe he’s busy…_ but then again, I had only said that to make him feel better. His court hadn’t looked busy at all. In truth, I’d sent that letter to reach out to him, because I felt sorry for him, because I was afraid he was lonely. Maybe the letter just made me look like a child. But I’ve never had a friend outside of the Dawn Court before, and the High Lord had seemed so sad, so desperate for something worthwhile…

It’s incredibly arrogant to think that my letter could provide him with such happiness, but I had to try regardless.

“Rora. Hey, Rora, you in there?”

Suddenly, I blink, my attention turning back to Aidos. “Sorry, Aidos. I’m thinking.”

“No shit.”

I roll my eyes, readying my stance once more. We’d been training before I drifted off; in fact, we’ve been training all day. My long absence on the day that winnowing saw me meet the High Lord of Spring had caused me more trouble than it was worth. Now, I’m not to go anywhere without a guard; now, I’m to train even _more_ hours of the day than I was before, and that’s not just concerning winnowing.

My ivory-and-gold dagger glints against the sunlight as I shift its weight in my hand. “Another round?”

Aidos considers the concept for a moment, glancing up at the palace above us. His short white hair rustles in the gentle breeze that passes us; his earthy eyes are focused, and the angle of his jaw has never seemed sharper. We had started our training in the courtyard before people had begun to gather and watch, and then, sensing how uncomfortable I was, Aidos had suggested we fly down to train on the grassy plains surrounding the mountain palace I call home.

“Nah,” he finally answers, shrugging. “It’s been a long day. We can finish up now.”

My eyes light up. “Really?”

Aidos shrugs, sheathing his blade. The little braids in his hair, the tendrils he keeps longer just for the aesthetic, move with him. “Yeah. You know, you did well today.”

I’m about to smile and respond with a _thank you_ when Aidos continues, “Just not well enough. You still have yet to beat me,” he grins.

I roll my eyes, moving towards him to shove him gently. “You’re older than me, and stronger.”

“Never let that define a fight,” Aidos reprimands me. “You’re smarter than me. Smarter people have bester bigger people in fights before.”

“Now you really _do_ sound old,” I grin teasingly.

It’s Aidos’ turn to roll his eyes. He averts his gaze to the skies briefly before he asks, “Race you to the palace?”

Once more, my eyes are ablaze with enthusiasm. “Now _this_ is where I win.”

I shoot off into the skies. Aidos doesn’t stand a chance. He might be stronger, older, but I’m fast—faster than most Peregryn, the Captain says.

It’s _something_ to be proud of, at least.

I spy my open balcony doors and come to a stop on the small outdoor space. Despite the cool time of year, I don’t mind the temperature too much; it’s chilly, yes, but the breeze that slips through the open balcony doors reminds me that I’m here, that I’m safe, that I’m grounded. Every time, despite the chattering of my teeth, it’s a welcome reminder that I’m home.

I spin, grinning in defeat at Aidos. He’s seconds behind and pauses in mid-air before the balcony, making no move to land.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Aidos tells me, his wings beating against the wind. “I need to report to the Captain, and Cora will be on her way up to your rooms soon.”

“Report to the Captain, huh?” I grin. “You’re just upset that you didn’t win!”

Aidos rolls his eyes. “Careful,” he teases, “I _can_ go harder on you at practice, and I will.”

I merely laugh, shaking my head, and Aidos flashes me a cheeky grin before he shoots off higher into the skies.

I’m suddenly made aware of the quiet all around me as I turn to enter my rooms, and I’m thankful for it.

I don’t typically like being on my own, but… it _is_ nice to have a moment of peace, at least until Cora arrives. I’m not sure why I need her presence even in my free time, but she’s my friend, so I don’t mind it so much.

Still… it would be nice to feel like a _real_ girl, to gossip and laugh with the other courtiers and play together in the sun, but nobody else around here is my age. I’m young. It isn’t very often that new Fae are born, and I’m reminded of that every time I feel out of place.

I throw myself down onto the plush, silken covers of my bed, a sigh slipping from my lips. I should bathe, I know, but I just want to rest for a moment before I do. When I eventually push myself up, my body aching in response to the movement, I spy something on the table on my vanity—something which makes my heart jump in my chest.

Is that… a letter?

I near sprint over to it, excitement filling my system. It’s excitement which only builds up all the more once I see the green wax stamp the letter is sealed with. It _must_ be the High Lord of Spring! It’s not like I get letters from anyone else—or _send_ them to anyone else. I reach for my letter opener, ivory-and-gold again, and tear it open with unladylike haste as I perch on the delicate, ornate chair before the mirror attached to my vanity’s table.

_Aurora,_

_Thank you for the hamper, but you need not go to such lengths for me._

_The peaches tasted great. I extend my thanks to you. I have not endeavoured to grow them myself, but I do have some experience with other fruits. I am sure you already know this, but I would ensure to keep them indoors during the colder months. They are prone to freezing if the temperature is too frosty for them._

I clutch the letter to my chest. He liked them! Perhaps he’s just being kind, but peaches can only taste so horrible! I grin, pulling the letter away from my chest to read the rest, and—

The letter is stolen from my hands in one fell swoop. 

“This is from _who?_ ”

I turn to find Cora behind me, her mouth agape with outrage, having undoubtedly read from the bottom up. _High Lord Tamlin…_ Already, I can feel heat rising to my cheeks.

My brows rise pleadingly. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“Oh, really?” Cora’s own brows rise, though in her instance, they’re accusing. Her green upswept eyes are piercing as she gazes upon me, her dark hair tied in a braid which falls elegantly down her shoulder. Her gold-accented armour glints in the sunlight which filters through the windows. “Then what is it?”

“We’re just… friends. Not even that! I just sent him a letter. You know. To be courteous—”

“To be courteous.” 

“He’s not that bad!”

Cora presses her lips together, her eyes narrowing. Her hands find her hips.

“What did you send him? This is clearly a response,” Cora observes. “How long has this been going on for?”

I frown, lowering my gaze. “I sent the letter a few days ago. And… I asked him about my peaches.”

Cora’s brows rise again. “Your peaches?”

Irritated, I respond, “Yes, I sent him some peaches. And some apples, mind you. He looked—he looked _hungry—_ ”

“You _met_ with him?”

Uh oh. 

Why am I so _terrible_ at keeping secrets? I’d simply told Aidos and Cora, as well as Father, that I’d winnowed the distance back and flown some of it too. But I’d conveniently left my little meeting with the High Lord of Spring out. My eyes close, well aware that Cora just caught me in my eye, and my hand moves to the bridge of my nose.

“You know what they say about Tamlin, right? What he’s _done?_ He is not the type of person you want to be messing around with, Rora. Nor should you be at all—especially not without notifying me or Aidos.”

I look up at her, see the worry on her beautiful features, and I know she means well. She’s my best friend, and she’s more than used to me making silly decisions or taking risks that need not be taken. Cora is stubborn, just like Aidos, only despite this the two of them don’t seem to get along very well at all. Maybe it’s because they’re so similar.

“He was kind to me, Cora,” I insist. “Well… sort of. But we aren’t even friends! I just sent him a letter to thank him for… for helping me get home. I winnowed and got stuck and I—I didn’t know how to get back. So he _brought_ me back.”

Cora takes in a sharp inhale of breath. She pauses, closes her eyes, and then kneels before me. She places the letter on the table next to me.

“Aurora,” she says, her fingers grasping mine, “nobody can look at you and _not_ want to be your friend. Or something more.”

I frown, pouting just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“To you it isn’t. High Lords can be—” 

“I know how High Lords can be,” I snap back in response. One had tended to me Under the Mountain on Amarantha's orders, and the sight of him still unsettles me. My frown only deepens, not wanting to take such a tone with my friend. With a sigh, my shoulders slump and I pull my hands gently from Cora’s. “I just wanted to make a friend.”

Cora bites her bottom lip, standing slowly. She’s thinking, I can tell. “You say he was kind to you?”

I nod, briefly looking up to her before lowering my gaze.

Cora makes a noise of dissatisfaction before she waves her hand. “Fine. Letters are harmless, I suppose. But if he insinuates anything, or if he even _tries_ anything with you—” 

With a curve on my lips, I retort, “You know you’re not my mother, right? You couldn’t stop me from sending him letters, even if you wanted to.”

Cora shoots me daggers with her eyes. “I could still inform your father. Or the Captain.”

My face pales. “Oh, no. Not the Captain.”

The Captain is lovely; he’s my father’s mate, so of course he is. But we aren't close. And if he were to find out something so _embarrassing…_

“Promise me you’ll be careful, Rora,” Cora asks of me.

I nod, and with a smile, I say, “How bad can he be?”

Cora shoots me daggers once more, a look of _Really?_ behind her eyes, and I grin before I reach to read the rest of the letter.

_Should you bring the fruit inside to shield them from the cold, you will have to pollinate them yourself._

_Your letter was well received, but I fear you are simply being generous in saying that I must be a busy man. My days are lax lately._ _My court has seen better days._ _For this reason, there is no need to worry—your letter was not an inconvenience, and neither were your gifts._

_Thank you once more. Especially for your… kindness._

_Yours,_

_High Lord Tamlin_

“Well, he liked my peaches,” I say, looking up at Cora with a small smile.

She shakes her head and perches on the end of my bed. “I still can’t believe you sent him peaches.”

“He looked hungry,” I say in defense. In fact, he looked a lot of things.

“Aurora, he is a High Lord. He did not look hungry.”

I roll my eyes and stand, shrugging defiantly. I walk over to my wardrobe and pull an evening dress from it, a beautiful silken pink gown. Perhaps I could do some light reading before bed.

“I know what I saw,” I respond, glancing back at her. “His court was in ruins, Cora. Furniture everywhere… rose bushes tangled. It didn’t look like Spring at all. I’m worried.”

Cora frowns, standing from the bed to face me. “You don’t need to worry yourself with the affairs of High Lords, Rora.”

“Because I’m young, or because I’m a female?” I shoot back at her, annoyed.

Cora sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant. I mean because they can be dangerous. Think of Rhysand—you don’t like him.”

I crinkle my nose. Too many memories from Under the Mountain. “He unsettles me.”

“Right. And so what’s different about the Spring Lord?”

I take a moment to think, to muster over all that I saw those days ago. He had looked like a shell of himself, and I can only imagine what sort of man he used to be before. I have heard rumours of him becoming a tyrant, but… but the man I saw in those dark and gloomy halls hadn’t looked like a tyrant to me. He had looked lonely. Like he had nothing left to lose.

I’m worried for him still.

“He has nothing, Cora,” I say back quietly, looking up at him with a certain sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid for him. I’m afraid for how he’s feeling.”

Cora closes her eyes and shakes her head once more, averting her gaze. “You’re too kind for your own good.”

I leave it at that, deciding not to argue over the topic any longer. Instead, I call for the faeries to draw a bath, and when I strip from my clothing and the water envelops me in a warm embrace, I’m thankful for all that I have. I have friends and a bountiful court all around me, with lands full of treasures and mysteries yet to be discovered. But Tamlin… 

My thoughts shouldn’t return to him, but they do. I pity him, even if I know I shouldn’t. What happened to make him so miserable, so sad? I know of the discourse with the High Lady of the Night Court, but… there must be more to it than that. How could one female cause one male so much pain?

I wish I could know what troubles him at night. What he thinks of during the day. It’s not affection, no—it’s curiosity, pity, sympathy. 

A land of Spring is nothing without the chirp of birds and the gentle breeze that brings with it the promise of summer, and I hope to the Heavens that the High Lord can find a way to bring happiness to his lands once more… if it was ever there at all.

 _I’ll have to find a reason to return there,_ I realise, plunging myself deeper into the warmth of my bath and the bubbles which lie atop it. _Whether Cora likes it or not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next chapter will be from Cora's POV, which I greatly enjoyed writing!
> 
> Comments and kudos make me write faster!
> 
> P.S. I have nothing against Rhys BUT he and Aurora know one another from Under There and because of the memories it musters up, she dislikes being around him. It's not often Aurora has pure hatred to anybody, though. Least of all Rhys.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Tia xxx


	4. Cora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora informs Aidos of Aurora's meeting with Tamlin; Aidos asks Cora a question that's been tugging at his mind for longer than he'd like to admit.

I keep trying to tell myself it’s not a big deal.

But Heavens, it  _ is  _ a big deal. If only Aurora knew what that male was capable of… but she won’t listen, not even if I give her the full extent of the story. Or at least what I know of it. She has such a good heart, such faith in people, and she always strives to see the good even in the darkest of monsters. And that High Lord… 

I’m still convinced he only decided to switch sides in that battle because he was afraid of what he'd lose if he didn't. Because he was afraid for his own life. What kind of High Lord makes a bargain with the intention to double cross the other party later? I don't believe it.  _ Coward. _ He chose a coward’s way out. I cannot see that Lord as anything more than a snake, no matter how Aurora speaks of letters and peaches and kindness. She will be blind to his manipulation when the time comes for him to infect her with his venom, if he hasn’t already begun.

I’m vexed by the time I reach the guard’s barracks, incredibly so, which isn’t a rare feat for me. It’s dinner time—which means that the majority of the guards are watching over the nobility in this court as they drink and feast. There are a few people milling about, their shifts ensuring that this is their downtime, and I’m here because I know for a fact that Aidos is on one of those shifts. 

I spot him sat at a table still with his pale leather armour on, his feathered wings slack behind him. My nose curls at the sight as I stomp over to his table, slamming my sword and sheath down on it.

Aidos looks up at me, his hand—which holds a spoon full of soup—paused in front of his mouth. 

“Can you do your damn job?” I growl as I sit across from him. My annoyance is evident.

Aidos blinks at me, mockingly offended. He lowers his spoon to the bowl once more, letting the liquid within it fall back into it. “Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ . What have I done now?”

“Aurora,” I say, lowering my voice. “She met with the High Lord of the _ Spring _ Court.  Tamlin, of all people.”

Aidos’ gaze turns dark and he stands from his chair. “Out.”

He’s not dismissing me; he doesn’t have the rank to do that. I know for a fact that he wants to go somewhere private to talk, and in minutes, we’ve found a quiet alcove to discuss the topic further. 

Aidos simply continues, “When.”

“A few days ago when she disappeared for all those hours,” I respond, my gaze steely. “The Mother only knows what they were doing together. They’re sending  _ letters. _ ”

Something in his face turns sour, but it’s not rage, exactly. It’s something else. Is it jealousy? Aidos pretends  _ not  _ to be in love with Aurora, but it’s obvious— _ especially  _ when he flirts and jokes and teases. Aurora, of course, is oblivious. But she’s beautiful and kind and intelligent beyond her years, although she doesn’t realise it. And because she’s so oblivious, she doesn’t know how the things she says comes across sometimes.

I’ve caught Aidos looking at her with longing more than once. Heavens, he’d even joked about her giving him a massage once. Aurora had simply laughed it off. I smacked him across the head after, when we were out of sight.

“We should tell the Captain,” Aidos insists, “or Lord Thesan, at least.”

I shake my head and glance down the hallway which houses the archway we stand in. The archway to my right leads simply to the sky, intended obviously for those with wings, and the only way for anyone to overhear their conversation is by passing my left. Nobody is around—good.

“She asked me not to mention it, and I won’t betray her trust. I expect she knows I’ll tell you, however.”

Aidos grimaces. “Then what are we to do?”

“Nothing,” I respond, “at least for now. But you—” I stab him in the chest with a finger, “need to keep a tighter watch on her.”

“We have the same job, Cora.”

“And yet you’re the one the Captain requests updates from. Because of that, you have a certain amount of responsibility—responsibility you keep seeing fit to abuse, especially when you flirt with her like you do.”

Aidos’ gaze turns dark before he looks away, and his expression shifts. Like a schoolboy being told off, he mutters, “It’s not  _ like  _ that.”

“I’m not blind, Aidos.”

He makes a noise of frustration and runs a hand through his short white hair. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on her. But if she meets with him again…”

I nod, knowing just what he’s suggesting. “Then we tell Thesan.”

Aidos looks tense, as if it’s not an option he wants to choose. I know, however, that he acknowledges that it’s the only way to make a change. It’s not something I want to do—it’s not something I’ll do lightly, either. If she has an explanation, I’ll let it slide. But if she puts herself in danger… 

Aurora is my best friend. We’re the same age and yet… and yet she’s so young, so innocent in comparison to me. She stayed bright even despite the darkness she was kept in. I got the chance to soar, to see the world, and Aurora, my childhood best friend… she was forced to stay the same. A child. She’s nothing more than a child.

I will not let her go back to that darkness, no matter if it’s a male that causes it or not.

I nod, all that needs to be said having been spoken, and make the move to leave. Aidos merely stays where he is; I should wonder if he’s alright but I don’t. We’ve had our arguments before. We don’t get along. I tend to avoid him if I can, unless our guard duties call for us to look after Aurora at once. 

Just as I’m about to leave the hallway, Aidos asks, “Do you think I have a chance?”

I pause. _ No, I don’t. _ I do not see longing in Aurora’s eyes when she gazes upon Aidos, and I do not see a lover’s touch when she’s upset and reaches for his warmth as comfort. But I can’t speak for her, even if she  _ does  _ laugh and play with Aidos as if he were merely a brother.

“I don’t know, Aidos,” I respond, turning to look at him. My voice is surprisingly softer than expected, tinged with exasperation. “Time will tell.”

He stares at me, gives me an upward jut of his chin, and then turns to look out of the archway that leads simply to the sky.

He jumps from it a matter of seconds later. All I hear afterwards is the  _ sssh _ of his wings as he soars through the roaring wind.

I close my eyes, already tired of his dramatics.

_ Damn sensitive Peregryn males. _

I’m just thankful that the females of my kind are the ones with the will of steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than the others, so you guys get two updates today! I posted this early in the morning where I am, so expect another update when I wake up tomorrow.
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated! What did you like about this chapter?
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Tia xoxo


	5. Tamlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamlin receives two visitors: one welcome, and one not.

“If you are going to make visiting me a habit, Rhysand,” I say through gritted teeth, one fist clenching by my side, “then I would prefer that you make it less frequent.”

I am tired of him. Tired of him coming to gloat. When will enough be enough? Did reviving him not unbind me from this torment? The forest bordering the manor house is still, silent as always as we stand in the company of the patchy grass and the rose bushes long since dead—the remnants of the damage that his _mate_ dealt to my court.

Rhysand’s gaze is dark, serious, as he responds, “I assure you, we would not be meeting if it wasn’t necessary.”

A flash of white teeth on my part. “How selfless of you.”

“Alas,” Rhysand says, a lazy wave of his hand following, “I admit it.”

I growl at him, the most emotion I’ve displayed in what feels like weeks, maybe months. But he is testing my patience. And while I may not be up for fighting him, while I know it’s not going to get me anywhere… he can still rile me up. And he knows it. He likes it, no doubt. 

Rhysand merely folds his arms, unbothered. “We need to talk about the sentries that were sent to you to guard the border.”

“I’ll discuss them with the Lords that sent them.”

“I don’t think you’re motivated enough to discuss much of anything.”

“Yes, well,” I gesture to my surroundings, to the devastation all around us, “you have your _mate_ to thank for that.”

Rhysand growls. “How long are we going to play this game, Tamlin?”

“You tell me. How many more—”

But Rhysand’s gaze whirrs to the forest nearby, to the cover of the trees, and without letting me finish, he says, “We're not alone."

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I retort, “there’s nobody there.” And why would there be? My servants, my sentries; all abandoned me after Feyre’s destruction of my court.

And yet despite that, Aurora Morningsworn emerges from the brush, a sheepish look on her face. 

In her hands she carries a basket, covered with a lacy white cloth, and I wonder if she’s brought another hamper. For a moment I’m irritated; I told her I do not need her pity, especially not if her visits are going to remind me every time how dreadful I must look. 

My gaze on her is piercing. “Aurora.”

She swallows thickly, glancing between myself and Rhysand. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologises, her voice quiet, “I must be intruding.”

“No,” I answer before Rhysand can interject, suddenly relieved at her presence, “you’re not. In fact, Rhysand was just leaving.”

I turn back to him to find that his gaze on me has turned cold—colder than before. As if I care. Rhysand looks between us for a moment, but his gaze settles longer on Aurora. I bristle, ready to tear his head off if he tries saying anything to slander me in front of her, but for a while he just says… nothing. He only keeps his gaze on her, incredibly still as he does so, but I know there are countless thoughts running through his mind. I just don’t know what.

I don’t want to know, either.

The Illyrian turns back to me, boredom radiating from him as he assesses his fingernails.

“I’ll be returning soon to discuss this with you,” he simply says, right before he vanishes.

My shoulders slump with relief, and for a moment, I simply do not say anything at all.

And then Aurora shifts out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, I am reminded of her presence. My eyes are softer than before as I turn to her. She is frozen to the spot in a way that makes me wonder if it’s _me_ she’s afraid of, and if not, what Rhysand has done to make her so afraid. Then again… she’s a timid girl, it seems, and having the High Lord of the Night Court stare her dow might have spooked her indeed.

“Aurora,” I say, my voice filled with exasperation, but my tone is still soft. “What are you doing here?”

She swallows thickly, moisture welling in her eyes. My intake of breath is sharp.

“Don’t cry.” It’s more of an order than a reassurance; I simply do not want to deal with that today. “I’m not… angry with you.”

That seems to reassure her a bit. She lowers her gaze, steps towards me, and keeps her gaze lowered as she pulls back the cloth on her basket. 

Rotten peaches.

“I thought you might be able to help,” she says quietly, tentatively, as if bracing for an outburst. 

My shoulders relax all the more. I’m not sure if it’s because Rhysand has gone or because I don’t want her to be afraid of me. _But why do you care if she’s afraid?_ a voice asks me. I truly don’t know.

I utter, “I see.”

I simply stand there. A while ago, I would’ve known just what to do, but now… now, I’m not the same man as before. These days, the brush around me withers, the house remains dark, and the world turns black with the bitterness inside of me. These days…

These days I’m not worth anything.

“I can’t help you,” I respond bluntly. “I can’t be of service to anyone.”

Softly, she frowns; slowly, she puts the lace cloth back over the basket. “That can’t be true.”

“It is.”

“It is not,” she retorts sharply, defiantly. It’s strange how she can seem so timid in one moment and so brave in the next.

“You do _not_ know me, Aurora Morningsworn.”

“No,” she admits, her voice quieter this time—sheepish. “But I would like to.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it pity?”

“No, I—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Aurora’s lips curl, a movement that looks like it should accompany a hiss, and she steps back. “I am _trying_ to be nice to you,” she tells me, looking me up and down. “There is _no_ need to be so foul about it!”

I shake my head, taking a few steps backwards to sit on the steps of the marble steps that lead up to the front of the house. 

I let out a laugh, though it’s not entirely filled with amusement—rather, it’s filled with something else. “There aren’t many who would take that tone with me,” I tell her, not looking her in the eye.

“Do you find this funny?” She demands, folding her arms. She holds the handle of the basket on one arm so that it angles funnily.

I raise a brow, looking up at her. “Do I _sound_ amused?”

“I don’t know,” she sharply retorts, her words jutting out like jagged edges laced with venom. “It’s like you said. I don’t know you.”

I stare at her, exasperated and awed, and then… and then it’s too _much._

There’s a sickly feeling in my stomach that I do not like. I bury my head in my hands, my fingers curling into my hair. So much raw emotion flows through me that I’m surprised my claws don’t emerge and draw blood—I’ve never been one to control my emotions, least of all my temper… 

But even despite all this emotion, I’m still hollow in my chest. The sickness can only pool in my stomach. My chest… it’s as crumbled and ruined as the rest of the house is.

“I…” I hear Aurora make a noise before me, hear the crunch of her shoes on the grass. “Lord Tamlin?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Aurora,” I moan, my head buried in my hands. My hands drag down my face as I say, “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

She is quiet for a moment before I hear her move. I’m not sure where she goes or what she does, but in the next instant her hands are on my forearms and I presume she’s kneeling, kneeling in front of me so that we’re almost the same level.

“Because I don’t see anyone else around you, Lord,” she says softly, pleadingly, as if begging me to listen—to accept her, to welcome her in. “And I know what it’s like to feel so terribly, terribly alone.” 

The sickness I felt just before returns. And yet it’s different.

Slowly, slowly, I look up at her, although my hands don’t move from my head.

“You are too kind, Aurora,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Too kind to me.”

Even in a reality where I somehow am not able to see the smile that graces her features, I’d be able to hear it in her voice as she says, “Nobody is undeserving of kindness, Lord. Least of all in your darkest moments. Sometimes, that moment of kindness means everything—defines everything.” 

There is a brief pause before I ask, peeking at her through my fingers like a child, “And what do you expect will define me?”

Aurora’s head tilts. “I couldn’t say.”

“There is a lot that has defined me already,” I say, my voice low.

Aurora nods. “So I’ve heard. But we live long lives. There is still time to make a difference.”

I gaze upon her, half giving myself time to take in her words, half awed by her wisdom. How can someone so young be so wise? If only I was so wise at her age… I might not have made the decisions I made not so long ago.

Or maybe I would have. Sometimes, I still struggle to see why those decisions were wrong. I just wanted what was best for myself—and for Feyre.

But I don’t want to think about that now. I suck in a breath and glance down at Aurora’s hands, still on my forearms. She seems to realise that her soft touch is still on me, too, because she pulls her hands away hastily with flushed cheeks.

“Sorry,” she says, bashful. But she doesn’t look afraid like she was when she had apologised moments ago.

I shake my head, making myself stand. “You are very mature for your age.”

“You know what they say,” she responds quietly. I do. _Trauma ages you._

“I am sorry. For what happened to you.”

“Why should you be?” She shoots back. There is a certain amount of hostility to her tone, hostility that must be unintentional, because her voice is softer when she responds, “As am I with you.”

I nod in thanks. _This female is good,_ I realise. Good and wise, perhaps beyond her years. I hadn’t known there were good people left in the world.

I extend my hand to her, an offer of peace—an action that stems from a desire to have her closer. Not physically, but… in another way that I don’t quite understand yet.

“Aurora Morningsworn,” I say softly, smoothly, testing the name on my tongue, “would you like to come inside?”

She takes my hand with a graceful smile, a nod, her soft fingers finding my own, and I realise then that she glows. Not just with her innocence, but… really, truly glows, with the light that Thesan gifted her through his parentage. 

She’s beautiful. She’s so beautiful that it seems wrong to be able to gaze upon her here, right now, in my ruined court that screams destruction. She screams beauty, innocence, and prosperity as she gazes up at me with those soil-rich brown eyes.

“It would be an honour, Lord.”

_The honour is all mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I hope you liked this chapter! This one was really fun to write as we're just getting into the thick of things now.
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as usual, always appreciated!
> 
> Much love,  
> Tia xxx


	6. Aurora

It’s dark inside, just like last time.

I peek around every corner I can as the High Lord guides me through his home, though I’m most certainly aware that this is not a tour. If anything, by the hurried pace the High Lord chooses, I get the feeling that he’s eager to have me away from the destruction that litters his home and to somewhere… better. Wherever that is. That’s where I assume he’s leading me, anyway.

And I’m not wrong. We reach two double doors, the only doors in the house where light seems to filter through the cracks below it, and when he opens them and gestures for me to enter first, I do. And oh, how lovely it is; stacks upon books upon books, sat perfectly upon ornate bookcases, some built into the walls themselves… it takes my breath away as I enter breezily, wonderment in my every step.

“Have you read all of these?” I breathe once I’ve entered, whirring around to face him with a smile.

Tamlin glances around as if only just remembering that there are, in fact, books in here. “Some. Not all. Some are runic.”

I let out a sound between a giggle and a snort, the kind that would be embarrassing if I only cared. “Runic! How funny. And how old…”

I let my sentence fade off as I focus on the books once more, scanning their spines to read their titles. I wonder how many secrets lie in here; how many wonderful tales and stories. How has he not endeavoured to read them all? Why is he not more enthusiastic? There lies such a hunger for knowledge inside of me…

“Forgive me if I am wrong,” the High Lord begins, and watch as he begins to make his way across the room to the grandiose desk in the center of it, “but I get the feeling that you should not be here. Beyond… what I said before.”

I avert my gaze, trying to seem nonchalant as I observe my surroundings once more. “Yes… that might be true.”

“How did you get here?” He asks, settling down at the seat behind the desk. “I was under the impression that your winnowing skills were not… the best.”

“They aren’t,” I admit. “But I have friends who are… inclined to help me, should I wish them to.”

It certainly wasn’t Cora or Aidos, that’s for sure. Luckily, I have friends elsewhere… although there’s only so long Aidos will give me privacy with the excuse of _womanly pains._ He’s been keeping a keen eye on me lately and I don’t know why. I don’t like it, either—arranging this whole debacle had been a hassle. It’s a wonder nobody saw me escape from my balcony doors and fly down to the nearby village where Ikaros had waited for me, eager to help—for the promise of new, expensive tinkering material, of course. 

The High Lord nods. “I see.”

I find myself flushing for no reason at all, but when I turn to look at him, his gaze is distant—as if he’s living in a world of his own. Or perhaps it’s his thoughts that cloud his mind now: the events of the months past, of Hybern’s army, of the battle that ensued… 

“You know,” I begin softly, “you get this look in your eye sometimes. Like you’re somewhere else even though you’re here.”

Tamlin’s gaze lowers to the desk. “There are many places I would like to be rather than here.”

Teasingly, I say, “Is my company really that bad?”

Tamlin glances up at me, and I’m relieved to see amusement in the curve of his lips. Even if it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not at all.”

I pause for a moment, moving closer to the desk, and I ask, “Why not go?”

“What?”

“To those places. Why not go?”

He looks away, out of the window and then upwards, towards the sky above, and I wonder desperately what he’s thinking when he responds, “Because I don’t know where they are. I just know that anywhere is better than… here.”

“There is nowhere else you can go?”

“I am bound to the Spring Court by duty. And ancient Fae powers, as you know.”

I nod. “But… you are the High Lord of these lands. Surely there is somewhere else you can go if this place… unsettles you so. I have the beach; I like to sit and watch the sun rise over it sometimes. It’s beautiful. I fall asleep there more often than not.”

I pause before I continue, gesturing about me, “And who will harm you here in your own lands, anyway? You’re High Lord of this court. You could fall asleep in a meadow and still be safe, I bet.”

To my surprise, Tamlin lets out a humourless chuckle. “Your mind is so innocent, Aurora.”

I frown. I don’t like his tone—so patronising. “Excuse me?”

Tamlin sighs, averting his gaze in an almost bored manner as he says, “There is a reason you were able to winnow so close to the grounds of the house. I keep my wards down by choice; it wouldn’t matter if sleeping in a meadow was safe or not. If something were to happen to me…”

He _wants_ something to happen to him. It’s almost like he’s asking for it—to be killed in his sleep. To never wake up again.

_Oh, Heavens._

Who would these lands go to should Tamlin be murdered?

I hate to think.

“I should have brought you more peaches,” is all I can think to say, as if that’ll make everything better. _Stupid. Stupid girl. You’re prying where you shouldn’t be, and now you’re in too deep to know how to help._

Tamlin blinks and straightens, as if reminded of why I’m here in the first place. “Your peaches. That’s why you came here.”

I nod. “I don’t mind, though. It’s been lovely speaking to y—”

“Bring them here,” Tamlin says, standing, and gestures with a hand to come over. I frown somewhat, not fond of being gestured to like a servant, but I do so anyway. I set the basket on the desk and pull back the lace cloth.

Tamlin blinks at the rotting peaches, as if surprised by how quickly they turned sour. “How did this happen?” He asks, looking up at me.

I shrug hesitantly, not too dismissive, but still… clueless. “I woke up one day and they were like this.”

A lie. I tampered with them so that I had an excuse to see him again. Luckily, these weren’t the only ones I was growing.

The High Lord eyes me curiously, glancing over me. He looks back to the peaches and says, “Infection usually starts in Spring, but… I suppose it could happen sooner. Were they rotting on the tree?”

He looks so different—like there’s some hope left in the world as he talks to me about rotten peaches, of all things. Like he’s interested in something for once, as if when he talks about this there’s nothing else to worry about. My breath catches in my chest as I glance over his features; his limp blonde hair, once undoubtedly shining bright; his pale skin, his high cheekbones, the sharp angle of his jar, the dullness of his green eyes, the clothes that hang loose from his form… 

As if trying to get my attention, Tamlin says sternly, “Aurora.”

Before I know what I’m doing, I reach out my hand and cup his cheek. It’s not an intimate embrace, no; it’s one with an intended purpose. My eyes flutter closed as I focus, pull on my powers, and I know by the tingle in my hand and the pink spots from my closed eyes that I’m glowing, brightening, the same way that I always do when I use my healing powers on somebody.

It’s a few seconds later when I open my eyes, my breath loosing at what I’ve done. Tamlin’s skin is no longer pale but golden, bronzed, as if his days have been spent frolicking in the sun rather than remaining cooped up in this desolate manor. There’s this look on his face, too: not confusion, no, but… 

“I couldn’t bare to see you without sunlight any longer,” I tell him softly, by way of explanation.

His eyes, despite the colour in his face, remain dark. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I insist.”

Tamlin sucks in a breath and tersely says, “It seems I am now in your debt.”

My lips quirk upwards. “I know what you can do to repay me.”

His brows rise, the corners of his lips rising faintly. _Oh, what a beautiful sight._ “Oh?”

I step backwards, a laugh slipping from my lips. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

Tamlin’s eyes narrow on me. “Baiting a High Lord is not advisable.”

There’s this look in his eyes that makes me grin. He’s not entirely serious; he’s messing about, I think. I’m not sure if it’s my powers that have prompted it or simply _me,_ but it’s a relief to see something other than that emptiness.

Even if that look vanishes as soon as it disappears, leaving only that void of green once more, it’s something. 

Baby steps.

Maybe it’s none of my business, but… healing is in my blood. I don’t want anything in return—I’m not doing this for a purpose besides being kind. Prythian needs more kindness in the world, and if all the things I’ve heard about this wounded male are true, perhaps _he_ needs to experience a bout of kindness, too. 

It’s not that I want to fix him; it’s nothing as primitive as that. I simply know how it feels to be so terribly alone, and an entire court feeling that loneliness… the birds, the trees, the plant life… it deserves better. It deserves better than the High Lord they have here and now.

 _Kindness does wonders,_ I always say.

I step away from the desk, looking around the room as I think of the rest of the manor house, shrouded in darkness.

I look back at him, a teasing look on my face as I say, “How about opening the curtains?”


	7. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurora returns home only to be invited to dinner by her father. He's about to let her know what he knows...

Later, when it’s approaching a time far too indecent for the two of us to remain in each other’s company any longer, Tamlin winnows me home without me having to ask. I’m grateful for it, especially since I hadn’t thought so much about getting _back_ as much as I had getting to his court in the first place. We say our goodbyes, a polite nod exchanged between us, and then with one last lingering smile, I soar off into the Heavens once more. It’s only when I land on my balcony that my wings stop beating, though I can’t help but look behind me at the sprawling expanse of land once I’m still.

Tamlin has long gone, of course. But maybe if I stand here long enough I can glance at the spot we’d said our goodbyes at, pretend he’s still there, watching—

“Aurora?” Cora’s voice sounds from the doors to my bedchambers. I tense; had I got back just in time? “You in there?”

I leap into my bed, grab the book by my bedside, and then call, “Yes. Go away. I’m in pain.”

If my upcoming bleeding is as bad as I’m making it out to be now, I’ll have only myself to blame. But for now… for now, this is a valid excuse to be left alone.

There is a brief pause before Cora responds, “Your father would like to know if you will make it to dinner this evening.”

I sit up, tense. “Dinner?”

“Yeah. He didn’t say what for, though.”

 _Oh, Heavens._ He couldn’t possibly know, could he?

It’s not unusual for father to invite me to dinner; it’s just that he only really invites me on special occasions. It’s not that we don’t get along: we just don’t see the need to be around one another _all_ the time. We are perfectly comfortable in one another’s company, and I’m lucky to have a father as wise and kind as Thesan Morningsworn. But if he’s busy he will take dinner privately, and I never feel slighted if he does; I do the same, too, if I’m deeply enveloped in a book and do not want to part from it. He is a busy man, and I respect that.

I bite the inside of my cheek, nerves swelling in my stomach. Cora wouldn’t have told him—she’s not like that, not unless pushed. Unless…

Unless the _birds_ told him. In that case, I’ll be shooting daggers at them for weeks.

“Rora? You okay in there?”

“Yes!” I shoot back hurriedly. “Tell father I’ll join him. Will the Captain be joining him?” Perhaps they have some sort of announcement…

There’s a brief pause before Cora says, “Not sure. Do you want me to find out?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s alright. Tell father I’ll see him soon.”

Another pause. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Another nod from me. “I will. Thank you, C.”

I don’t hear anything else from her after that. I lay back down on the silken sheets of my bed with a sigh, wondering just how much trouble I’m in. My father isn’t the type to raise his voice at me, but still, his dissatisfaction can be just as unsettling. I hate disappointing my father.

It won’t be long until dinner, so I focus on making myself look presentable. I pick a form-fitting lilac dress, smooth and beautiful and just transparent enough to remain modest. I leave my crown, with its rays of the sun, on my vanity, instead choosing to weave roses into my golden locks, to sprinkle in some gold flecks from the box on my vanity, and to ensure that my cheeks and lips are a peachy colour that I like to think radiates innocence.

When the time comes for Cora to call upon me, telling me that my father is ready for me, I greet her with a small smile. We walk to the dining room making idle chatter, not so much small talk but a familial teasing, a sort of language reserved only for us.

When we reach the room where my father sits, however, Cora straightens into a position of professionalism, her wings behind her relaxed but poised. My father, Thesan, stands to greet me with a smile as bright as the dawn itself. I smile back at him softly as I walk across the room to envelop him in a hug, peeking over his shoulder at where the Captain, his mate, sits. He winks at me, mischief in his soil-rich eyes, his blonde hair wavy and cropped. I stick out my tongue at him in response.

How lucky I am to have such a wonderful step-father. In some tales, it doesn’t always go that way.

“I trust you’re feeling better than this morning,” Thesan says to me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“As well as I can be,” I respond. Another smile as I look up at him. “Dinner, father? What’s the occasion?”

He takes a step back, gesturing to the table—large, intended for more guests than simply the three of us. A feasting hall in its own right. The table, ornate and gold-accented, compliments the room perfectly: the soft, dusty rose colour of the stone walls; the balconies, with their doors open to allow in the gentle breeze; the floor tiles, accented with the Dawn Court colours…

“Take a seat and find out,” my father says. I give him a sideward smile and take my seat, and my father does the same. Only once he’s seated does he look over to Cora and say, “Join us, will you?”

Cora, who had stationed herself at the doorway near the other guards, blinks. “Lord?”

Thesan waves a hand. “Come. You are as much family as my own daughter—you’ve been around me for almost as long. You’re welcome at this table.”

The Captain stares at his subordinate, as if to say _behave,_ and Cora only hesitates for a brief second before nodding and taking her seat beside me.

I’m tense. This cannot be good. My father isn’t one to play games; he’s not the type to invite Cora to sit with us out of anything but kindness. But it still puts me on edge.

A servant arrives to place a mat and cutlery before Cora, and shortly after, the first course of our dinner is served. We engage in casual conversation even through to our main course, joking and laughing just like a family should, and even Cora joins in after she’s eased into the idea of feasting with the High Lord she serves. Just as I think I’m clear, however, my father speaks.

“So, Aurora,” he says, turning to me, and there is a smile on my lips as he does so, the remnants of a joke the Captain had said to me, “I hear you’ve made a new friend.”

I pale instantly and pause, trying to find something to say to indicate my confusion, but all I end up doing is biting my lip. _He knows. He most definitely knows._ I don’t need to look beside me to know that Cora is as tense as I feel. If she is about to get in trouble for keeping my secrets for me then that is _not_ something I will stand for. I don’t often get snappy, but when it concerns my friends…

“Really, Aurora?” The Captain’s voice is teasing, but still holds an air of exasperation. “The High Lord of the Spring Court? You have friends in high places, it seems.”

I groan, resisting the urge to bury my head in my hands. Instead, my face flushes as I lower my gaze to my meal. “I can explain.”

Thesan’s brows rise, amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “I was hoping you would do that.”

Beside me, Cora lifts her goblet to her lips. I’m not surprised. If I was her, I’d need more wine too.

So I explain to my father and his mate: about how I had struggled with winnowing the other day, how I had pushed myself too far too soon, how I had somehow ended up in the Spring Court. How I had wandered into Tamlin’s manor house and he had helped me get home. Conveniently, however, I left out my visit earlier today—which will likely come back to bite me in the derriere later on, but I’d rather not mention that now. Especially not when I interrupted Tamlin’s conversation with Rhysand.

To my surprise, my father asks, “And how _is_ Tamlin’s court?”

I frown. “If you mean for me to spy for you, father…”

Thesan shakes his head. “I do not. But there are some courts we must keep a closer eye on, dove; Spring, lately, has become one of them. It is… a matter of concern.”

I suck in a breath as I respond, “It looked terrible, father. His house, his lands… it all lies in ruins. That’s why I went to the manor house in the first place; I didn’t even know it was his home. The rose bushes in the gardens were dead, the woods silent, the sun mild…”

“And how about your visit today?”

Beside me, Cora’s head spins in my direction. I see the Captain lean back in his seat, his gaze careful as he looks over her, and I sink a little lower in my own chair as shame wafts from me. I didn’t _want_ to go behind Cora’s back, but she never would have let me visit if I asked. After, I’d probably be guarded even when bathing.

I grit my teeth. “Do the birds in your service not know how to keep their beaks shut where it doesn’t concern them?”

The Captain lets out a huff, though whether it’s amusement or something else, I can’t tell. “When the daughter of the High Lord is sneaking off into the city unguarded, it’s your father’s concern. And mine. We’re merely worried for your safety, especially if you’re dabbling in the affairs of High Lords. Dangerous ones.”

I let out a breath and roll my eyes, averting my gaze to the open doors of the balcony. Beside me, Cora is still looking at me, and I give her a smile and narrow my eyes by way of apology. For sneaking off, for betraying her trust… but we’ve been through worse things.

“Why do you see fit to visit him, Aurora?” Father asks. Not so much a question stemming from curiosity, but concern.

I avert my gaze. “He seems lonely.”

Thesan sighs, “Aurora…”

“Don’t _Aurora_ me, father,” I snap back, “I know how it sounds. I know he’s powerful enough to take care of himself. But he’s just… not. And even if you think it’s silly, I think he needs a friend.”

“You would not be saying the same thing if you saw how he acted at the High Lords meeting,” the Captain near-grumbles.

Before I get the chance to respond, and as if dismissing his mate’s last claim, my father says, “We must remain neutral, Aurora. If the other courts think we are working behind their back with Tamlin…”

“Working behind their backs to do what?” I demand with a frown. “He has nothing left to lose and therefore he has nothing left to give us. I would like to see what sort of nonsense they could muster up in regards to what we could possibly be doing with him. If anything, it’s in character for us to help him in his time of need.”

Thesan sits back in his chair, assessing me. His dark eyes narrow as he does so, but I do not feel threatened; I simply sit, defiant, my shoulders squared and my wings folded politely behind me.

The Captain blinks at his mate. “Thesan?”

“Perhaps…” My father looks away in thought. “Perhaps I could make you emissary to the Spring Court.”

Beside me, Cora chokes on her wine.

My father continues, “It would, at least, give you reason to be there.”

Emissary. Emissary to the Spring Court.

Nerves bundle in my stomach. Am I really qualified for this? Is this ridiculous? I don’t understand why my father is being so nonchalant, so accepting. I thought he would dismiss the issue and tell me not to visit again. He’s not the overprotective type, but my time Under the Mountain… it has scarred him just as it scarred me.

“Why are you allowing this?” I ask my father, frowning.

Thesan shrugs. “I think you are right. He shouldn’t be alone. It is better for us to be the ones who are there for him in his time of need than somebody like Lord Beron, for example.”

I grimace. My father is right, too. But still… I look between father and the Captain, uncertain. “Don’t we already have an emissary to the Spring Court?”

My father smiles, sympathy radiating from the movement. “Not anymore. You’ll find there aren’t many people who wish to deal with the Spring Court, these days.”

My lips press together in thought once more and I avert my gaze. Emissary. How hard can it be? It _does_ seem like quite a nice title…

Like father says, it would give me a reason to visit, and… and maybe I can find a way to help the High Lord of Spring rebuild his court in taking on the title.

“Alright,” I respond, “I’ll do it.”

Given the way the Captain observes my friend beside me, I have no doubt there is some look of shock or exasperation on her features now. Despite this, however, I do not draw my gaze from my father.

“But how should I help?” I ask, uncertain. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

My father shakes his head. “For now, if his lands are as you say, I doubt Tamlin will accept any aid. He clearly has lost all hope. There’s no point thinking about what we can offer when he will not help himself.”

“So I am to do what?”

“Develop a relationship. Gain his trust. But,” Thesan says, “you will have to fit this around your lessons. Do not think this is a free pass to mess around, Aurora.”

I nod. That I can deal with—I can visit the Spring Court in my free time. I lower my gaze to my meal in thought, shifting the food around on the plate. “How am I supposed to find reasons to visit?”

At that, my father’s eyes twinkle. “What better reason to visit than to deliver an invitation to a party?”

My lips part—first in surprise, then in excitement. “A party?”

The Captain groans, burying his head in his hands, and I withhold a giggle.

“A way to get information out of him under the guise of a party, of course,” my father says. “A gathering wouldn’t be out of character given the amount of parties we used to host… before.” My father gives me a terse smile, and I can tell that he’s as uncomfortable talking about that time as I am. “We must return to normality, and I suppose… well, I suppose there is no better time to do it.”

“A party,” I say, my smile slowly growing bigger the more I think of it. “A _party_.”

Glee creeps onto my features not because Tamlin will be there, but instead because I haven’t been to a party since I was young—younger than I am now, at least. Before Amarantha. Oh, how I had loved the dancing, the giggling, the laughter, the music…

I’m going to _love_ this.


	8. Tamlin

The next time a letter arrives at my door, sealed with gold wax, I do not question who it’s from.

In fact, I tear open the letter perhaps a bit too hastily, my claws sliding out to aid me in the tearing of the paper. I don’t need to read the name at the bottom to know that it’s from Aurora, either; I know her elegant handwriting by now, all beautiful swirls and perfect curls. Mine, in comparison, is far sharper.

_High Lord Tamlin,_

_Once more, I hope this letter finds you well and happy._

_I write to you with the most exciting of news! And no, this time, it is not regarding peaches. In fact, my father is hosting a gathering of courtiers, just like the good old days. You are invited—I have your very invitation laid out for you on my dresser. It may relieve you to know that no other High Lords are coming; I mentioned you in passing to my father and he simply suggested that it would be lovely to invite you._

_You might be wondering why I have not sent your invitation alongside this letter. I would very much like to deliver it to you in person. I could come to you, or you could visit the Dawn Court if you wish—I could even show you the beach I mentioned where the sun rises most beautifully, if you were willing to arise early to watch it._

“Tamlin.”

I bristle at my own name, knowing just who that voice belongs to. I crumple the letter in my hands, lowering it to lie flat on the desk, and I raise my gaze from the paper to the doorway of the library where my newcomer has appeared.

Lucien.

The image of him after the battle against Hybern comes to mind, the sight of him in those Illyrian fighting leathers burned into my memory by now. These days, it’s the image that always appears at the forefront of my mind when I think of the male before me. I had once considered him a friend. My closest ally. Now those days are long gone, and it… it fills me with sorrow to think about it.

Sorrow and anger and—and something far more bitter that stirs in my stomach like a monster waiting to be unleashed. 

“Lucien,” I respond gravely, sitting back in my chair.

Silence.

“What do I owe this visit to?” I ask, my tone not entirely kind.

“Just checking in,” he says as he makes a few steps closer to the desk. “I wanted to see how you were. You look… good.”

“You might as well get on your knees and beg, what with compliments like that.”

Lucien’s gaze darkens. “I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Your skin—it looks different.”

 _Aurora._ I pause, momentarily looking away as I remember what she did for me. She has been the first person to show me kindness in a long time.

That means something. I just don’t know what.

“Yes, well,” I quip back, “you have Thesan’s daughter to thank for that.”

“Aurora? The youngling?” Lucien’s brows furrow in confusion. “I didn’t know the two of you were close. Or knew each other.”

A flash of white teeth. “I am short on friends lately, you see. I have endeavoured to make new ones.”

“I see.”

I sigh as I look out of a nearby window. It’s late morning. “Not that it’s any of your business, anyway.”

Lucien grimaces at my tone. “I’d like for us to be friends, Tamlin. One day. Winter Solstice—it was…”

Lucien trails off, pausing to think of the right words, and in the silence I am left with the memories of that very holiday. After some wine, it had almost seemed like things were back to normal—almost. Except after I’d come to my senses, after I’d remembered the lack of servants and sentries around us and had once more taken in the darkness of the house, reality had snapped back into place.

Nothing is as it was. I’m not sure if it will be for a long time. If ever. 

Biting back my pride, I lower my gaze to my desk as I quietly admit, “Winter Solstice was enjoyable.”

Something shifts in Lucien’s eyes—is that hope? Or relief? Perhaps both. “Maybe it can be like that again.”

 _Maybe._ But I don’t know what Lucien has to do to redeem himself in my eyes, and… I don’t know if I can ever fully trust him again.

I look back at him. “This is pointless, Lucien.”

“Why?"

“I mourn our friendship, yes. But even I don’t know what could be done to repair it.”

Lucien is quiet for a few long seconds. For a while we simply linger in silence, and I wonder what thoughts are running through my old friend’s mind before he breaks that silence.

“Be well, Tamlin,” Lucien says, “and be happy. I am glad you have someone, at the very least.”

I nod to him, acknowledging his statement, and then I avert my gaze as he vanishes into thin air.

I feel just as hollow as before.

It’s seconds later that I remember the letter still on the table, that I haven’t finished it it, and my stomach flips with something akin to relief as I pick it up once more, resuming where I left off.

_If you would like to spend time together so that I can give you your invite, please do write back to me so that we might arrange a time and date._

_Yours brightly,_

_Aurora Morningsworn_

I close my eyes, leaning back in my chair. I am realising as the days pass that having Aurora around has not been at all bad; in fact, it’s been… nice. It’s unusual to have someone care for me. Aurora can’t mean that much to me—I won’t allow it, not when we barely know one another. Except… 

Except I’m craving her words, her soft touch, the gentle way she speaks that makes my shoulders relax and my tone soften. I look out the window again. Would a visit to the Dawn Court—right now—be so wrong?

There is something bubbling inside of me. I realise after a moment that it is my lack of self control—the burning desire to do something for _me._ I will visit her. Catching up with Thesan won’t be terrible, either; the High Lords meeting and the battle that followed hadn’t rendered us on terrible terms. But first… 

First, I must make myself look presentable.

Time to brush my hair and find some clothes befitting of the High Lord of Spring—or whatever is left of me. 

Time to pretend to be the male I once was.


	9. Aurora

“Sorry to interrupt, mopey,” Aidos greets myself and my tutor—with the nickname intended for the latter—“but the High Lord himself requests his esteemed daughter’s presence in the reflection room.”

My tutor grunts in annoyance, slamming down his quill, but I ignore it. He has a terrible temper and knows nothing of fun, not that I expect whatever my father wants me for _is_ anything of the sort. I instead turn my attention to Aidos. It’s his duty to guard me even in lessons; typically, he meanders about the room, sometimes guards outside the door, and often annoys my tutor. It’s very entertaining. The message must have come when he slipped outside.

I sit up straighter in my chair. “What for?”

“He just said that he wants to see you,” Aidos tells me, shrugging. “Nothing else.”

I glance at my tutor, expecting some wise sort of observation. His hair burns red in the sunlight and his brown skin might make him handsome if I wasn’t disgusted by the idea of thinking such a thing about the cold man before me. It’s like his only purpose is to teach, and it would be in his worst interests to do anything except gather knowledge.

He waves a hand. “Go,” he says with a grimace. “We will continue later.”

I frown, but regardless, I stand. I grab my headband sitting on the desk, having taken it off for it was hurting my head, and place it back on before Aidos and I venture out into the corridor. We walk in silence for only a few long seconds before I glance to him, a frown on my brows.

“I don’t like this,” I tell him. “He summoned me the other day, and you know what that was for. What _now?_ I haven’t done anything.”

Aidos chuckles. “Sure you haven’t snuck out again without telling me?”

I shoot him a playful look that borders on daggers. “I already said sorry for that.”

“I know,” he responds, looking quite smug, “but I’m going to milk it ‘til I can’t no more.”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously, though. He didn’t say what he wanted?”

“The servant who sent word didn’t, no. I’m sure it’s fine, Rora—it’s like you said. You haven’t done anything.” 

I nod, looking ahead of me as we traverse the hallways. Perhaps Aidos is right. 

“Still can’t believe he made you emissary, though,” Aidos teases, grinning across at me. “You. Emissary.”

“You watch your tongue,” I glare at him, though the corners of my lips curve upward. “You’re just bitter that I won’t let you come and guard me."

“Who _is_ guarding you when you visit? Did you sort that out?”

“We did. And nobody. Father reluctantly agreed that it might be seen as an insult, and I can take care of myself.”

“ _Aurora_ —”

“It’s the Spring Court, Aidos. Nobody is around—nobody at all.”

“Which is exactly why you’re in danger. Tamlin is open to attacks. And with the Wall gone…”

“He’s a High Lord. He’s powerful. And besides, the Wall is reinforced.”

Aidos, to my surprise, growls. “He tells us to watch you more closely and then allows you to visit the Spring Court unguarded? It makes no sense.”

I glare at him, this time without any humour in my gaze. “This _he_ you speak of is still your High Lord, Aidos. You’d best be careful how you speak, even if we are friends.”

Aidos merely shakes his head, his irritation clear, but I know he means well.

Quietly, I say, “Do not think my father is allowing me to do this lightly. He is trusting me—trusting me because I asked him to. He could keep me here like a bird in a cage, and yet…”

Aidos sucks in a breath. “And yet he’s letting you make your own decisions. Right.”

“Things change. I know it might seem strange that he’s suddenly changing his orders—”

“It’s not, Aurora. Can we drop this now?”

I bite my lip, but I do not respond. 

We spend the rest of the journey in silence, but luckily, it doesn’t take us long to reach the reflection room after our conversation ends. I love this room: it’s bright and beautiful, and not just because of the circular pool in the middle. The walls are made from the very same stone as the rest of the castle, a beautiful marble sunstone that glints with gold, and the floors are just as extravagantly coloured. The reflection pool casts a beautiful glow of swirls on the ceiling high above. The High Lords meeting had been held here—the one I had stayed far away from.

I wonder what I would have thought of Tamlin if I had met him then. It must have been a far darker time for him—full of rage and bitterness. I can sense the remainders of such strong emotion in his eyes, buried amidst the void that lingers at the very forefront of his green orbs—

But as soon as I reach the entrance to the room, I’m forced to stop in my tracks. My father stands near the reflection pool, the Captain stood nearby as his rightful guard, and beside him… 

“Tamlin?”

Shock etches itself across my features, and then—glee. I beam, lifting the bottom of my dress as I make my way bouncily towards him, and to my relief he offers me a smile in response. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask, glancing between the Spring Lord and my father—and then I see the look on my father’s face.

Deep in thought is an understatement.

“Lord Tamlin arrived asking for you,” Thesan says simply, and yet there is so much meaning behind it—a meaning that I do not understand. 

I swallow thickly, glancing back at Tamlin. 

“I was just saying that I received your letter,” Tamlin said, glancing at my father before looking back at me, “and that I would quite like to take you up on your offer.”

My offer… for a moment, I don’t remember what I wrote in the letter. And then I do—the beach, the dawn… oh, that _does_ sound lovely. But it’s way past the time to see the sunrise and I frown at the thought, trying to think of a way around it.

“Well, it’s a bit late in the day to watch the sun rise,” I say, a faint flush creeping onto my cheeks, “but if you aren’t busy—or maybe if you are you could come back later—I could show you the sunset?” 

Tamlin raises a brow, amusement curving at his lips, and then… and then he nods respectfully. “I would like that.”

My father clears his throat. “Given your newfound friendship, I have appointed Aurora emissary between our lands and your court. I trust you find this acceptable, Tamlin?”

Tamlin turns to my father then, silent for a moment, and then he nods. “Indeed.”

I can’t tell if that’s a good reaction or a bad one, but at best, it’s not the _worst._ If he’s here, if he’s inquiring after me, that means he certainly doesn’t find me annoying. That’s something I worry about a bit too often, but I can’t help it.

For a moment, I merely say nothing, smiling at him. He smiles back. It’s my father that breaks our silence, clearing his throat.

“Tamlin, you must join us for lunch. It would be a pleasure. I have no doubt my daughter would love to attend, too.”

I beam at my father. “Of course.”

“If you insist, I will join,” Tamlin says somewhat awkwardly, but he does not draw his gaze from me. The heat does not leave my cheeks.

“Lunch,” Thesan says, “and then back to lessons. Tamlin, you are more than welcome to stay until Aurora’s free time begins.”

Tamlin agrees, lunch begins shortly afterwards, and the rest of the day drags along after. It’s not too long—only three hours’ worth of lessons, and Aidos knows I won’t be making the extra training I do in my free time later on—but it seems like another lifetime. I’m agitated, restless, as I glance out of the open balcony doors of my classroom, wanting nothing more than to unbind my wings and soar out into the open air, to find Tamlin, to take him to that beach and wait for the sun to set…

Anything would be better than lessons.

So when the time comes for them to end, when I’m finally free, I do not bother saying goodbye to my grumpy old tutor. Instead, I near sprint from that classroom and only slow my pace when I see servants traversing the hallways nearby, my only reason being I do not want to attract unwanted attention.

But when I get to the lounge area where I last saw Tamlin, he’s not there. 

I frown, the beam slipping from my face. Has he left so soon? Standing in the doorway to the room filled with plush sofas, cushions, round tables and open archways lining the wall opposite me, I can see that the room is empty. Nobody in sight—not even any indication that he’s going to come back.

I take a step backwards, searching for anybody who might know where he went.

I’m relieved to spot a familiar face traversing the hallway—not quite a friend, but somebody I know well. Nuan, the palace’s very own tinkerer, has helped me many a time. It’s only recently that my father promoted her in the wake of the war against Hybern, her faebane antidote having been pure genius. She looks busy, especially with the books she’s shuffling in her arms, but I tell myself that my question won’t take too long.

“Nuan,” I greet her kindly, “do you know where High Lord Tamlin went?”

She blinks, and then a frown slips onto her features. “The Spring Lord is here?”

I nod quickly.

“I’m not sure, but…” She hugs the books in her arms closer to her chest. “If I had to place my bets, I know who’s most likely to have stolen him away.”

I tilt my head, confused. “Who?”

Nuan glances about, as if watching for listeners. “The High Priestess.”

My gaze darkens, anger crossing my features. Oh, no—Nuan is right. Not _her._

I’m not sure if all High Priestesses are alike, but I hope not. Power-hungry, manipulative, cunning… I’d say that I hate her, but I don’t hate anybody except Amarantha. In fact, I respect how clever she is just a little. But it’s everything else that I dislike—how she looks at my father despite his mate being around, how she sneers at me whenever I enter the room, how she tries to pull his attention from me to her every time the three of us are in the same room together…

I have no doubt she’s attempting to wrap Tamlin around her slender little fingers.

“I bet they’d be at the tower,” I mutter to nobody but myself. “Thank you, Nuan. Take care.”

I need to head to the tower that the Priestess—Rowena—commandeered for herself all those years ago. It’s one of the tallest towers in the palace. The Priestess filled it with fancy décor, expensive trinkets and pots upon pots of plants long ago. I could take the stairs… or I could fly up to the very top, the open part of the observation tower which Rowena uses as her own personal living room, as if the astronomers don’t actually have to go up there and use that space to study.

But before I can move, Nuan’s hand gently finds my arm. It’s a great feat considering how busy with books her arms are.

“It’s not my place to say this,” she says quietly, gently, “but be careful around Tamlin.” 

My brows furrow ever so slightly. _It most certainly is not your place._ But I simply nod, bid her farewell, and then I’m stomping off to the nearest archway and pulling off the bindings on my wings with nothing more than a deliberate roll of my shoulders.

I clench my fists. No use for stairs when you have wings.

I throw myself off the edge of the palace without a care for the cloth left behind on the floor. I soar up and up and up, a wicked smile curving on my lips as I spy the observation tower in the distance.

Why _am_ I so angry?

It’s not as if Tamlin is mine…

No, no. It’s simply because I know how foul she can be. Rowena is a stain on the Dawn Court’s noble and shining reputation. Her spies are everywhere and her followers are near-fanatic. She’s more like a plague than a person, infecting her bias and prejudice on all those who might listen. Tamlin should not be subject to such treatment when he is feeling so foul himself. 

I spy them in the lounge area at the very top of the observation tower, just as expected. I slip carefully through the wide archways lining the room, my feet finding the dusty rose stone of the floor with a solid stomp. With my wings flared and my shoulders squared, it’s undeniable that I’m displeased.

“Rowena,” I greet her, my head tilted, the stormy look on my face uncharacteristically wicked, “you seem to have stolen away my guest.”

For a moment, I swear there’s fear on her features, in the hazel of her upswept eyes and in the soft curve of her cheeks. But then it vanishes, the starkest look on her face found in her eyes—cunning, cold. Her dark blue robes contrast the very theme of the palace, no doubt with the intent to draw attention to her and only her. While I prefer pinks and pastels, she prefers deep, royal colours—blue, purple, emerald green.

“ _Your_ guest?” Rowena passes the response off as innocent, unknowing, despite the sneer on her face. She flutters her lashes. “Then you _must_ forgive me, Aurora.”

Aurora. She likes to throw rank in my face like this, her disrespect evident. Technically, she does outrank me, but it’s polite for those who aren’t close to me to refer to me with a title...

I turn to look at Tamlin then, forcing myself to loose a breath. The sight of him relaxes me just a little, and I’m not entirely sure why, but… at least she hasn’t driven him mad, by the looks of it. He hasn’t spoken—and it doesn’t seem like he intends to, either.

“The sunset shouldn’t be too far away, given the time of year. If you would like… we could go now. Perhaps bring some food. Make a picnic out of it.”

Rowena snorts before Tamlin can respond. “High Lords have better things to do than go for picnics. I am sure Lord Tamlin has other matters to tend to. In fact, we were just discussing the vacancy in the Spring Court—“

“Do not,” Tamlin drawls, slow and threatening, “presume to speak for me, Priestess.”

Rowena’s lips part in surprise. Tamlin merely glances between us, an annoyed look in his eye, and then offers me his arm. Something flutters inside me at the sight.

“A picnic sounds wonderful, Aurora,” he responds. I inch closer, my wings slowly folding behind my back as I link my arm with his. His grip is firm but gentle, all at once, as if he has no intention of letting me go any time soon. I wrap my arm around his a little tighter, savoring the feel of his muscular arms underneath.

“Goodbye, Rowena,” I say, shooting her a look that could kill.

We make our way down the staircase arm in arm, and I am glad to be rid of that woman. Typically, I am kind to all of my sex—there is no need to fight amongst ourselves when there is so much against us already. I believe in the unity of women. But Rowena… she is another type of woman, another kind of _person_ all together.

I let out a breath as we walk for a little while, brushing my shoulder against Tamlin’s. “I hope Rowena didn’t bore you—or say anything horrible.”

Tamlin chuckles. “I have met people far fouler than your High Priestess. You need not worry about me.”

I lower my gaze, a small smile gracing my lips before I continue, “I’m sorry you had to wait for so long. Father rarely lets me leave my lessons.”

Tamlin shakes his head. “It’s my fault for turning up unannounced. It didn’t cross my mind.”

“Why _did_ you show up today? Not that I’m complaining…”

A pause, and then… “I wanted to see you.”

I blink, turning to look at him in surprise. Tamlin pulls us to a stop, his hands finding mine as the two of us pause on the stairs. I stare into his green eyes, brightened by the sunlight filtering through the windows in the tower, and—does his hair look different?

I can’t describe it, but it looks… silkier. Like he’s actively been taking care of it. It compliments his other features: his muscular form is sealed inside a green doublet accented with gold and green swirls, alongside brown pants and boots. His skin is just as golden as when I had brightened it, and I realise, with all these features combined, just how handsome he is. I think I could get lost in those eyes forever and I think, my gaze glancing between his lips and eyes, that my favourite part of his face is his cheekbones—

Stop it. I don’t need to be thinking those kinds of thoughts. The person before me is a High Lord—a High Lord who is merely being kind, and would never look at someone as foolish as me in that way. 

I pull my hands away, lowering my gaze to the floor with flushed cheeks.

Tamlin continues with surprising gentleness, “Is that alright?”

My fingers clench into fists—if only because I want, desperately, to hold his hands again. “Yes,” I respond, looking up at him with a smile. “Yes, very much so.”

Tamlin flashes me a smile, offers me his arm again, and I accept it with eagerness.

I have no intention of letting go.


	10. Tamlin

“I suppose this is as good a time as ever to give you your invite,” Aurora says, handing me the letter. “I’m glad I get to give it to you in person.”

In return, I’m glad to finally be able to bask in her company. Being without her wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever endured, and neither was finding myself in the company of Rowena. But considering how much I had yearned to hear her laugh—yearned to see her smile—earlier… Yes, being in her company now makes it all worth it.

There’s a faint smile on my own lips as we sit on the grass just before the beginning of the beach, awaiting the sight of the sun as it sets. It hangs low in the sky now, a deep orange colour which indicates that it will soon be vanishing beyond the horizon. It casts a dark shadow over the trees behind us, the rest of the beach to our left lined with them until there is no beach left in sight. The tide is high. 

“Is there an occasion?” I ask, drawing my gaze away from the waves as they crash against the sand before us.

Aurora shrugs softly. “Father used to hold such grand parties before, as I’m sure you remember. We want to start them again—to make the palace feel like it used to. There was always such excitement, such joy… the hallways have seemed a little less busy since I returned home. Empty.”

“I know how that feels,” I murmur, and Aurora gives me a small, sympathetic smile in response.

I don’t like the meaning behind that smile, but it… doesn’t grind at me as much as it usually does. Certainly not as much as our first meeting had, when she had obviously pitied me so.

I’m distracted from my thoughts as she plucks a daisy from the ground with a gentle smile. I can’t help but marvel at her beauty, her elegance. She gestures for me to lean forward and I do so wordlessly, allowing for her to slip it into my hair, and only once she’s done fixing it does she observe me with girlish amusement. I can’t help but mimic the smile on her face, a small huff of amusement following.

The rest of our time at the beach is spent in a similar way. It’s been so long since I’ve smiled, since I’ve felt anything other than hurt, and I’m still getting used to the feeling of it again. But it’s getting easier. More familiar.

Dusk—the end of a day, the time to put one’s past behind them. Renewal.

Dawn—the promise of a new day. Hope.

She is all of these things combined, I realise as I gaze upon her. She makes me feel like achieving those things, feeling those things, is actually a possibility.

I haven’t smiled like this since…

Since Feyre.

My gaze darkens and my smile vanishes soon after.

I cannot think of Aurora in the same way. Not when my heart still yearns for Feyre, even after all she did to ruin my court. Even after all she did to ruin my heart. My reputation. I will not open myself up to another woman only for my heart to be stomped on once more; I cannot, will not. I’m…

I’m afraid of that.

There aren’t a lot of things I’m afraid of. Losing Feyre had been one of them—it was why I had acted in the ways that I did, why I had locked her in the house and had been blind to her sadness. I don’t want that fear to extend to yet another person. At the end of the day, it’s just another loved one to lose. 

And yet still, the thought of Aurora treating someone else with such kindness, such care… it makes jealousy writhe inside of me like a green beast yearning to be set free.

I have no desire to lose her.

I cannot be with her, but… the thought of her with somebody else…

Anger bubbles under my skin.

There has been a comfortable silence lingering between us for a while when I ask, “Will somebody be accompanying you to this party?”

It’s a subtle way of asking if she has anybody, not that she’ll realise that. So innocent, so naive… 

She blushes. “No,” she responds gently, “I shall be attending on my own.”

My gaze on her is focused. “I see.”

I will not be so forward as to ask her to go to the ball with me—I don’t want that sort of commitment, not when I am still feeling so empty, so unlike myself—but I shall certainly be stealing more than one dance, at the very least.

I turn away, watching the sunset, and I don’t speak for a while until I say, “Well, I am grateful to be invited.”

Aurora turns to look at me. “But you will come, won’t you?”

I pause, still looking ahead at the view—the sun is setting, now, the moment we have both been waiting for. The moment I used as an excuse to see her. And then I turn to her, away from the sunset and all of its beauty and to _ her,  _ and I smile.

“Yes,” I reply, “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect two updates today! Since this one is so short, I thought I'd provide an extra one. Check back later!


	11. Rowena

Aurora Morningsworn should know better than to spite me.

I welcome the chill of the evening as I gaze up at the night sky above, a mirage of blue and black now that the sun has long since set. The moon casts a pale glow on my skin, my sheer nightgown swaying with the evening breeze, and I tilt my head up to take in more of the moon’s glow. Here, I can take in her power; here, at the very top of one of the Dawn Palace’s tallest towers, I am able to fully bask in it.

I close my eyes. A low hum slips from my lips as they curve into a cunning smile, my mind going over the plan I have spent the last few hours planning—especially for that meddlesome little brat. 

She’ll regret the day she set her little half-breed feet on my floor.

“Mistress,” a voice sounds behind me, one I know well. Sabah—one of my spies. He is one of the best.

My fingers clench around the archway’s railings. “Yes?” I demand, my teeth clenched.

There is a brief pause before Sabah continues, “You asked to see me.”

I did. I release a sigh as I turn to him, leaning against the railing that my hands had held a moment before. I savour the look on his face—the lust, the desire—as he looks me up and down, the sheer material of my gown leaving nothing to the imagination. I have known of his yearning for me for a while now. I delight in teasing him like this. Sometimes, I wonder if his desire to see me in bed with him is the only reason he is so good at his job.

I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Sabah, darling,” I purr, “I have a job for you.”

He straightens, clearing his throat. He forces his gaze away from my body and to my eyes as he says, “I’m listening.”

“Good,” I respond, a wicked smile curving my lips upwards. “I was hoping you would choose that over ogling.”

Sabah chokes.

I toss my head to the side, my raven locks flowing down my shoulder as I assess the darkness of the land around me once more. In the distance, I can see flickering fires; the signs of life in the nearby villages, the lives of people who live meaningless lives as farmers and tinkerers. Pathetic. Who would want that when they could have everything in the palm of their hand?

At least, that’s what I’ll have. Soon.

“Postpone the plan to get rid of the Captain,” I order with a wave of my hand. “We have other priorities.”

Out of the corner of his eye, I see Sabah frown. “But you were so keen to get rid of him so that you could have Lord Thesan for yourself—”

I gesture with a pinch of my fingers for him to shut it, and to his credit, he does.

“His daughter,” I say slowly through my teeth, “has irritated me.”

Slowly, slowly, a wicked smile sets upon Sabah’s features, too. “You mean for me to dispose of her instead?”

A shake of my head. “Nothing so dramatic. At least not yet. No—she had a visit from the High Lord of Spring today, and they look to be quite close.”

Sabah frowns. “Mistress?”

I continue lazily as I look back to him, my gaze piercing, “I wonder how that would be received amongst the other courts. Especially Night, given their High Lady’s history with Tamlin. Dawn, one of their closest allies, working so closely with the court that was so quick to side with Hybern, too… it might be cause for concern.”

Something shifts in Sabah’s eyes. “I am to spread the word.”

I nod. “Yes. But make it scandalous.”

“... Scandalous,” Sabah repeats, clearly confused. I sigh. Mother help him: he has never been the smartest, but at least he’s awfully good at picking up on the business of others.

“Yes, Sabah, scandalous,” I say once more through gritted teeth. I cross the threshold to him without failing to notice the way that his gaze flicks over my body once more—once, twice, three times. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Sabah swallows thickly, unable to draw his gaze from my form until a moment later. “No,” he splutters, “I got it.”

“I expect the rumours to be common knowledge by tomorrow,” I tell him, my fingers brushing against his chest. “Start with the court first, then that knowledge will spread to the other courts within days.” 

Sabah nods. My fingers trickle up to his shoulder.

“Aurora and the Spring Lord are close,” I purr. “Inseparable. They cannot go a moment without the taste of the other on their tongue.”

Sabah nods. My gaze followers my fingers as I trail them down, down, down his arm.

“The High Lord has been invited to Thesan’s party to scheme, to plot, all at the suggestion of Aurora Morningsworn—the Spring Court’s latest emissary.”

Sabah nods. I trail my fingers across from his hand, right to the sweet spot he  _ yearns  _ for me to touch… 

“The people are beginning to call her Tamlin’s Harlot,” I murmur. “It’s a name that will catch on quickly."

Sabah nods, swallowing thickly, and I pull my hand away.

“Good,” I say nonchalantly, turning away from him, “Now go.”

But Sabah hesitates. “Mistress, if I may ask… what, exactly, did she do?”

I do not have to answer him, not when I am the one that gives the orders and asks the questions. But what’s the harm in doing so? Sabah is loyal to a fault in a way that borders on stupid; in some ways, he is the one person I can tell the truth to and sleep soundly at the end of the night.

After a long pause, I explain, “She interrupted my attempt at getting my prodigy into the Spring Court, and she insulted me as if  _ I  _ am the one below her, not the other way around. I will have to try to speak to Tamlin again at the party Thesan is hosting, but then again, I have no doubt that Aurora will have her filthy little hands on him the entire night.”

Sabah nods. “And once this is over with… we focus on the Captain, right?”

This time, it’s my turn to nod. 

“Do your job, Sabah. And do it well.”

He is gone from my tower with a bow of respect, leaving me in the company of the moon once more. I prowl towards it, called to it like a wolf.  _ The Night Court has a High Lady,  _ I think to myself, my hands splaying out on the railings of the archway once more. I stare up at the moon as I make a silent vow, one that I have made many a time: _ Soon, I shall be one too. _


	12. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There's some saucy stuff in this chapter. You've been warned!

When Tamlin and I are at the beach again, I’m confused. I could’ve sworn I had gone to sleep with a smile on my face and notes upon notes of dress designs for the party, having pestered him into incorporating ivory into his outfit somehow. Yes—my chest had been aflame with excitement at the idea that we might match outfits, that we might dance together, that I might be able to bask in his touch for longer than a fleeting moment, for his hands to find my waist until there’s nothing left of me but girlish glee… 

And yet as the colours of the sunset swirl around me in a way that is out of this world, everything makes sense. It doesn’t matter that I said goodbye to Tamlin hours ago—all that matters is that he is here with me, with the sunlight warming my skin… even if some strange part of me wishes for that warmth to come from Tamlin himself.

“At lunch,” Tamlin begins, his strong fingers drawing patterns on my skin as his sun-flecked orbs gaze upon my face, “I saw that your wings were bound. Why?”

I try to ignore the thudding of my heart at the feel of his touch and instead shrug softly, lowering my gaze to the ground. “It stops people from staring at them and helps me focus when I’m learning,” I explain quietly. 

“You shouldn’t,” Tamlin tells me. “They’re beautiful.” 

The feel of his hands on mine makes my body tingle until the only thing I can focus on is his touch, where it might move next—

I look up at him and he inclines his head towards my wings. “May I?”

I bite my inner cheek. _I don’t like people touching them, not after her._ But...

But… I crave his touch, crave for the space between us to be closed. The way he’s making my body heat up proves it.

“Alright,” I say. “Just the bottom, though.”

Anywhere else and he might drive me insane. Does he know how sensitive wings are? Does he know what he’s doing? Can he sense my desire for him?

He reaches out his hand and my fingers find his own, guiding him, my chest tight, and when he touches me… His fingers barely ghost against my feathers and yet I shudder at the feeling, rolling my shoulders in response. It creeps down me in a wave, past my breasts, between my legs, tingling in my feet… and Tamlin’s gaze darkens in the same way as mine. Hungry. Lustful. A predator who has spotted prey.

I haven’t felt this way with anyone before, and yet… and yet with him it is a roaring urge to have him, for his fingernails digging into my skin, for the growl of pleasure that would undoubtedly slip from his lips at our joining, to have him claim me in every way possible. I want to feel his lips against mine, his teeth in my neck—

His hand cupping my cheek draws me back to reality.

“They’re beautiful,” he says hoarsely, his voice taking on a new tone that I haven’t heard before. It’s like he’s barely keeping control, and that hungry look in his eyes doesn’t disappear as he says, “And so are you.”

And then he’s leaning in and there are butterflies in my chest and between my thighs, an urge to wrap them around his hips and pull him flush against me and never let go—

His lips are inches away from mine when the dream ends.

I blink the sleep from my eyes, letting my eyes adjust to the light in the room. What _was_ that? Some sort of… sex dream?

I sit up suddenly. _No, no, no. No. No no no no no—_

I did _not_ just have a sex dream. Not about the the High Lord of Spring.

_Nobody will know. Nobody will know._

My body certainly knows. My chest is heaving, my body slick with sweat—

I do _not_ have feelings for Tamlin. I do not. I do _not._

_Okay, maybe a few feelings. Maybe a little._

No! I don’t. He’s just… nice to me. And he’s handsome, so of course I’m feeling like this. But I hardly know him—liking somebody just because they’re handsome is hardly a reason to have a sex dream about someone.

_Is it even a sex dream if there’s no sex?_

I let out a groan of frustration as I lift a pillow to my face, the noises muffled as my skin pushes against the pink silk.

I need to get out of this bed. I need to do something to distract myself. I’m grateful for the fact that it’s the weekend, because if I had lessons today I don’t think I’d be able to focus. That dream is going to put me in a restless mood for the whole day, I know it.

I bathe. Later, I pick a dress—one that is as far away from Spring Court colours as I can—and end up wearing a deep red that I’m not sure I actually like. I don’t really remember where or when I got it, but at least it’s a better choice than the pastel green and pearl accented dress I eye upon opening my wardrobe. I let my hair fall free today, sliding on my sunbeam headband. No pearls, no flower crowns. No Spring Court.

I feel somewhat out of place as I leave my room. What to do with my spare time, too? I almost feel anxious.

Perhaps a walk into town… but I’d need Cora or Aidos for that. I sigh, glancing at one of the nearby archways. I could go for a fly, wear myself out… Yes, a fly will do.

Before I get the chance to soar from the archway at the end of the hallway, however, a courtier stops me in my tracks. I blink, taking in the features of the face before me, and then I frown. Sabah—one of Rowena’s most loyal followers. By extension, I dislike him.

“Been busy, have we?” Sabah smirks. His arms fold and his deep blue robes, so much like Rowena’s, crinkle with the movement. His arms are accented with gold jewellery that jingles when he moves, his skin is mahogany in the morning sun, and his dark hair is slicked back and accented with gold flecks. Summer Court. He wears his heritage proudly.

The furrow of my brow deepens. I glance look around at the people glancing our way before I respond, “Excuse me?”

Sabah’s jewellery clinks as he waves a hand, laughter following. “Oh, nothing,” he says lyrically, just before disappearing off in the other direction. What was that about? 

I shake my head, dismissing whatever that had been. I had been so distracted this morning that I forgot to bind my wings, so in no time I find myself soaring from the palace and perching atop one of its many roofs. The fresh air is a relief, and it’s almost enough to put the thought of that Mother-forsaken dream out of my head. 

For a while I merely watch as people go about their day, their duties, their lives. The sun even peeks out from between the clouds occasionally, but otherwise, the day is quite overcast indeed. I try to ignore the feeling that everyone _knows_ about that dream I had, that everyone’s staring at me, because realistically I _know_ it’s not so strange to spy a Peregryn perched on the edge of the palace roof.

So why, every time I try to meet another’s gaze, do they swiftly look away?

I’m starting to find myself unnerved and when I spot the Captain. I won’t lie and say that I’m not relieved. With nothing else better to do, I throw myself off the roof with a soft _swoop_ of my wings _,_ falling into line next to him with a lazy smile.

“Captain!” I greet him merrily. “How are we this—“

“Aurora,” the Captain says suddenly, slowing to a halt. There’s this look on his face—shock, surprise, displeasure. Our wings both flap overtime in order to keep us in one place. “Tell me it’s not true.”

I frown, confused. I glance to the side—another Peregryn stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

But the Captain merely gives me an incline of his head, gesturing to the woods. His frown doesn’t lessen as he says, “Come with me.”

***

“Captain…” I begin somewhat awkwardly, my brows furrowed, “is there a reason we are sitting together in silence?”

The Captain swallows thickly, glancing about at our surroundings. Despite the whisper of the bugs in the trees and the swaying of the leaves, something feels wrong. Maybe it’s just the overcast day—or maybe it’s just the fact that people keep _staring._ But I’ve never seen the Captain look nervous before and, I don’t like the sight of it. _Tell me it’s not true…_ doesn’t he know how ominous that sounds?

Finally, the Captain responds, “Yes, well, uh…”

I fold my arms. “Captain.”

“Yes. One moment."

“ _Captain_ .” _Please just tell me—_

“Alright. I’m just going to ask outright.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” the Captain repeats, except he shows no sign at all that he is, in fact, okay—or that he’s going to finally get on with whatever he has to say. 

I blink, readily awaiting whatever it is that the Captain wants to ask me, and then— 

“Are you having… intimate moments with Tamlin?”

I blink, tilting my head. “Intimate moments?”

The Captain’s face falls into a look of dread. “Mother help me,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head, and then mutters something else—something about innocence, naivety. He continues, “Please tell me you are not having sex with the High Lord of Spring.”

I blink—once, twice, and then the outrage sets in. “No!” I respond, embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. “Captain, why in the Mother’s name would you—”

“There are rumours! Even the High Priestess _herself_ expressed concern—”

“Rowena told you this?” I hiss through gritted teeth. I stand, my fists clenching at my sides. “Told my _father_ this? That I was—that the High Lord and I are _intimate?_ ” 

The Captain steps backwards and therefore away from me, raising his hands in surrender. “No, not—not exactly, but your father _is_ concerned. I admit, I was supposed to ask about this more subtly if I got the chance to, but I’m—I’m not the best at this, at speaking between the lines, and—”

“I’m going to kill her,” I growl between gritted teeth, turning away from the Captain and instead to face the palace—to face the observation tower. I turn back to the Captain and point at it, anger wafting from me in waves. “I’m going to kill her, and I’m going to mount her head on that tower’s very spike!”

The Captain blinks, shocked at my words. “Aurora!”

My hands splay at my sides angrily, my lips curling into a snarl. “You _believe_ her, don’t you? Father, too?”

“When you said you had visited him a few times, Thesan didn’t realise exactly _how_ close you two were. The fact that he came to visit yesterday—”

“She’s—they’re—” I try to grasp for words, my anger suddenly turning to desperation as I clench my fingers, pulling them up to my chest. My eyes threaten to well up. “They’re lying!”

“Aurora,” the Captain says slowly, calmly, “that is a grand accusation to make.”

“ _They’re_ the one making grand accusations, not me. The most we’ve done is—is hold hands!”

The Captain’s face pales. “So there is some truth to it.” 

I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation. “Really!”

“You—” The Captain waves a finger, his lips pressed together, but he hesitates as if he is unsure of what, exactly, he’s supposed to say. I wouldn’t think it possible for his lips to press together any tighter, but alas, they do. “After the party, you aren’t to see him again. Emissary title be damned.”

I sniffle. “You can’t give me orders.”

The Captain places his hands on his hips. “I can give you parental…” He pauses, looking for the word, and then waves a hand in annoyance when he can’t find the right one. “Orders. Alright, whatever. But I’m serious!”

“Stop treating me as if I’m a child!” I demand, my wings flaring in anger. The sudden outburst paints a picture of shock on the Captain’s face as his wings flare too, bristling at the sight. It’s an automatic response—one we, as winged beings, can hardly control. 

I continue, “I was twenty when they locked me Under the Mountain, thirty when Amarantha plucked out my feathers one by one and _paraded_ them around for all to see, to _embarrass_ me—”

“Aurora—”

“She made me look at myself and my bare wings in the mirror and I _vomited,_ Captain, _everywhere,_ and then she made me writhe in it until they came for me again. And then she forced the Night Lord to invade my mind because she knew I was too weak to even lift a _finger_ to resist. Forced him to search for father’s secrets, to pluck at my memories until I was sick _again_ —”

“Aurora, _please_ —”

My breathing is erratic and there are tears welling in my eyes, tears of anger and upset, and I swear I can glimpse them in the Captain’s own, too. But it doesn’t stop me from continuing, from spilling out the words that I’ve kept locked in for so long— 

“I don’t even _remember_ how old I was or—or how long it was that she used me as her chew toy for her little pets. And you stand here and treat me like I am a lamb to be protected, like I am completely helpless, like I _don’t_ carry around the weight of all that was done to me and countless others under that Mountain in the same way that I carry the dagger I keep at my thigh, like I _don’t_ train with Aidos even until the sun has set, even when my free time begins far earlier. And you—”

I point a shaky finger at him without really knowing what I’ll next say, tears blurring my vision so much that it’s hard to see. I’m too angry to speak. A sob breaks from my chest, a noise that hasn’t slipped from my body in a very long time, and I cannot help the wobbling in my knees. When they buckle, I don’t make an attempt to push myself back up.

“I’m sorry,” the Captain says quietly, terror in his tone—terror at what his words brought on. He kneels, his hands hovering over my form as if waiting to see if I will push him away, but I don’t.

He shuffles forwards and wraps his arms around me and I hold onto him tight—tight like he’s the only thing keeping me grounded to the safe space that is the Dawn Court, like he’s the only thing keeping me from drifting back to that dark cell where only torment awaits.

I’m not angry at the Captain. Not really. Truthfully, I don’t know where all that rage came from. But some part of me tells me that it had to come out, that it’s been building up for some time without me even knowing. I’m tired; I can feel the energy seeping from me as I relax into the Captain’s comforting hold, my eyes fluttering closed.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs into my hair, stroking it back. Gentler sobs wrack my body now, the space between each one getting longer and longer, but even so, he just keeps murmuring it over and over again—”it’s alright. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

And although his words are sweet, encouraging, and laced with worry, I’m not sure I believe him.

With Rowena around, or whoever made those rumours… I don’t think I feel very safe in the Dawn Court at all.


	13. Tamlin

I return from the Dawn Court with the knowledge that something has to be done about my home.

It won’t do, having Aurora see the house like this. Seeing the Spring Court like this. The latter is something that I need to work on, something that I have no clue how to repair, but the former… yes, that’s something I can work on. Often I am reminded of the fact that I was never meant to lead, that I was never meant to be High Lord, that out of all my brothers, _my_ power had to be the one too strong to ignore. Would one of my brothers, as cruel and tyrannical as they were, have been a better High Lord than me? Am I the best the Spring Court has to offer?

The Spring Court, it seems, has nobody left but me. 

So I start cleaning. Or at least I try to. And for a while, I make good work of the house, Aurora in mind—all this _for_ her. But every room reminds me of Feyre; even the feasting hall, where she had stolen that knife thinking I didn’t know; even the infirmary, where she had bandaged my hand after my fight with the Bogge. The library. Feyre’s rooms. The long-since sealed gallery.

Looking at Aurora as the warm glow of the sunset illuminated her skin, I had thought she embodied renewal, hope, the promise of a new day. New beginnings. The chance to put one’s past behind them.

So I decide to start anew—I decide to put the manor house behind me. To heal.

Maybe someday in the future I’ll return here. This place had once housed many fond memories, mostly involving my mother; perhaps it can be that way again. But for now, I want nothing to do with this place. For now, I need somewhere new… somewhere I have the chance to be happy without being reminded every day of my mistakes.

I know exactly where to go. I winnow myself across the Spring Court without a glance back at the manor house, shifting my body to the westernmost part of my county. To my family’s summer home.

In the Spring Court, summer doesn’t exactly get blistering hot. The weather remains mild all year, but there _is_ some difference in the months in regards to where the differing seasons are concerned. When I was a boy, I had always enjoyed my time here—playing with my brothers, swimming, learning the land. Spring blooms here, whereas at the manor it does not.

My mother had loved this place. Small, bright flowers climb the stone walls of the palace as the structure overlooks a small beach, a place where I had laughed with my brothers despite the differences that separated us. The building is all spiralling towers and ivory walls coated with window after window, allowing for a beautiful view of the sea and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The structure itself sits atop a mass of rocks just high enough to shield the actual building itself from the power of the ocean, keeping it just above sea level, while the grey-blue roof of the palace compliments the bright blue sky perfectly.

Here, it’s a perfect Spring Day. Here, my court is untouched by the void that consumes everything inside of me.

Close enough to the nearby villages for me to hold court eventually, this place is perfect. It’s smaller than the manor house in width, but with five levels in some parts _and_ an attic space which could encompass another two levels itself, the palace is far more grand than the manor house could ever be. With the addition of some gardens—a sprawling mass of flowers and shrubbery just like the Spring Court—it could be a fitting place for a High Lord indeed.

The flowers, the gardens… that will come later, though. For now, I focus on cleaning: I have a guest to make the place presentable for.

So I get to work.

I pick rooms for myself, a sprawling chamber filled with a privy, bedchamber, study and living space; I even pick rooms for Aurora, should she ever decide to stay. I clean until my arms ache, but by the end of it, the palace looks as if I never left.

I pause in the living area on the first floor, staring out from the large window that encompasses the entirety of the western wall. The sunlight sparkles against the sea below, a gentle _ssh_ sound as the tide splashes against the rock. The reflection of it dances about the room like a mischievous will-o’-the-wisp, reflecting off the green-and-gold marble of the walls and the elegant furniture.

This place is a start. A start at something new.

But it’s so big, too big for one person. It had been filled with the laughter of children once. My brothers’, cousins’. My own.

I… want that, for this place. I had once thought it might be that way with Feyre.

But I realise, with stark clarity, that the image of mine and Feyre’s children running through these grand halls… it doesn’t inspire warmth. Rather, it inspires cold, forcing a shudder down my spine at the thought. I can no longer clearly picture the way our children would look—once, I had pictured a son with her hair, my green hues flecked with gold, maybe even a daughter with my hair and the high cheekbones I inherited from my mother.

With Aurora, though…

I can picture their golden hair, their green eyes—girls, beautiful children who look like they’re made out of sunlight. A son would be necessary, of course, due to the line of succession, but…

But with Aurora, I don’t think I’d care about any of that.

I shake my head, pacing closer to the window. Only the sea lies beyond, not an island or ship in sight. The thought of Aurora warms me just as much as the sun filtering through the glass panes before me, and the thought of our children…

It’s ridiculous. Absurd. And yet as I turn, I can picture them playing in the space between the couches, and can picture Aurora reading soundly as she watches over them.

That’s when I sense that something is wrong. No, not sense—I _know_ something is wrong.

It’s fear. Pure, unbridled fear, but it’s not my own. It’s deep within my chest, shaking my bones and making my head spin, but even still it’s not mine.

It’s Aurora’s—and she’s in trouble. 


	14. Aurora

_MOMENTS EARLIER..._

Tamlin is the first person I think to go to.

It doesn’t help the rumours. I know that. But… but I had wanted to get away so badly, wanted something akin to _relief_ after leaving the forest and finding out just how bad the rumours were. Me—Tamlin’s… his _plaything…_ and to insinuate that our relationship was anything other than kindness, to insinuate that my relationship with him was corrupt in nature…

Who would do such a thing? What did I do to deserve this?

My fingers are clenched tight together as I glance about the Spring Court manor in search of the High Lord that comforts me so. My body shakes as I meander through the hallways, and it’s not because of the cold. No—the climate around me is perfect for a Spring day. 

“Tamlin?” I call out, but my voice drowns in the sprawling expanse of the manor.

I search everywhere, or at least everywhere that I’ve been while visiting. I weave through the hallways, past dark corridors lined with furniture and shredded paintings, between every bookshelf and in every alcove of the library… 

The curtains, at least, remain open—open, just as I had suggested they should be.

“Tamlin?” I call out again, tears welling in my eyes. My voice is small as I call out one last time: “Tamlin?”

Nobody is here.

Of course he’s gone. Of course he’s busy: he’s a High Lord, not some servant I can see fit to dally around with at any moment in time. I had thought… I had thought that this might be the right place to go, that somehow he would be able to help… but of course he has better things to do than console _me._

Sniffling, I set myself down at the marble steps leading up to the front door, hoping that he might return and see me. The gardens are a sprawling expanse of tangled roses and dried flower beds, and I wish I could’ve seen it all before the High Lord was hurt in the way that he was. But what if I make it worse? What if… what if I’m just tarnishing his reputation all the more, putting more bitterness into his heart?

No. I should leave. Word of the lies shouldn’t reach the Spring Court… right? The Dawn Court is infamous for the rumours that spread there, but very rarely do they have serious consequences. Tamlin has enough to worry about. It’s selfish of me to be here—

I stand promptly, making to leave. I’m wiping the tears from my eyes when something in the corner of my eye makes me halt in my tracks.

Something is watching me. From the trees. I spy a pair of eyes, wisps of smoke, something flickering like a swarm of fireflies…

I take a few steps forwards. It’s too far away for me to touch—the treeline doesn’t begin for a good dozen metres. But its eyes are trained on me, and therefore, so are mine on it.

It. Whatever it is.

“Hello?” I call out quietly, hesitantly, “are you alright?”

It moves. It moves too fast for it to be High Fae, at least. A lesser faery, perhaps? But those wisps of smoke…

“You don’t need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend.”

It shifts, moving a little closer to the edge of the treeline. I let out a breath, worried that whatever it is, it might be hurt.

“Come,” I say, inching closer. I extend a hand, a soft smile stretching across my features. Healing, helping—it is my nature, and therefore, all worries from earlier in the day are suddenly gone.

It does as I say—moves forwards, emerges from the cover of the trees, and that’s when I see it in its entirety.

Its skin is tight like tree bark; no, it _is_ tree bark, as if the being is one itself. Branches, antler-like looking things, poke out from its head and shoulders like wisps of hair, leaves coating its body in the same tree-like fashion. It’s Fae in shape, with long, pointed ears that are elongated past even the branches that poke out of its head, but that’s not the starkest thing on its body.

No—that would be the long, spiralling, pointed claws at the end of its gangly arms. And the misty blackness that surrounds them. In fact, I can see black patches all over its body, where the essence of the forest—green, crystal-like essence—should once have glowed. Flies swarm around it, a telltale sign of death and decay. I’ve never seen a spriggan in person before, only heard about them in my studies of this very court, but…

I know that this is not what a spriggan, or at least a healthy one, is supposed to look like.

And it’s not alone.

One, two, three—countless others emerge from the woods as I stand and stare, my shoulders quickly tensing.

I realise then that this was perhaps a terrible, terrible decision.

“I don’t mean to harm you,” I call out tentatively. I try to will my voice to sound strong, to scare them off, and yet…

They whisper at me, taunting me. Collectively. A hive-mind of shadow.

I fumble for the dagger at my thigh, loosing a breath at the hiss of my ivory-and-gold encrusted blade as I pull it from its sheath.

“Girl,” one of them hisses, or maybe it’s all of them, I don’t know—

“Submit to us,” another hisses. The sound comes from all around, from every inch of forest I can see.

“Never,” I respond back, the look in my eye darkening. I’ll fight them if I have to; I’ll put my extra training lessons to good use.

“Stupid,” they hiss, and with a blink of an eye they are shifting, moving like shadow, closer and closer. “We have been watching you. Waiting. How we have hungered—”

“The High Lord leaves our lands barren,” they hiss, flickering shadows as they inch closer, a predator sizing up prey, “and we will take from him as he has taken from us.”

I respond, my head high as I ready my battle stance, “I am not the High Lord’s. You take nothing from him."

Closer, mere metres away from me now… “Fool. if you knew the truth—“

I don’t give them the chance to finish.

I shift towards them almost as fast as they move, my heart thudding in my chest. I slash at one with my dagger, blocking another’s advances with the force of my elbow into its torso; I use my wings to help me dodge, my stance perfected after hours of training with Aidos.

“Bitch!” One hisses, slashing at me with its long, gangly claws. I leap out of the way.

“Language!” I laugh back, striking at another.

One goes down. Collectively, together, the rest of them screech in pain, a terrifying noise that forces me to cover my ears. All of a sudden I’m stumbling, caught off guard, a grunt slipping from my lips at the shrill shrieking that fills my ears. The pain—it hurts even me, such a high pitched sound—

One slashes at my wings, its claws gouging deep as it screeches in triumph. _Not my wings, not again._

I let out a cry of pain and another slashes at my ankle, and my hands and knees hit the ground hard. The screeching continues. I have to get up. I have to be strong, not helpless, have to fight my own battles—

A thunderous roar sounds from the edge of the treeline and the screeching intensifies. I close my eyes and all I see is _her,_ my wings beaten and broken, my feathers plucked one by one until all that’s left is bare skin, until the sight of them had me spilling my guts on the floor— 

I don’t know how long it’s been before the screeching stops, not when I’m surrounded by the weight of my past and all the terrible, terrible things within it. I’m only just aware of the rapid pace of my breathing and the crunch of grass under heavy feet, my knees long since having found the comfort of the green blades.

“Aurora,” I hear someone say in front of me. I clench my eyes harder.

“My wings…”

“Aurora,” the voice says again. Someone shifts in front of me and I open my eyes in fear. Boots—brown boots engraved at the tops with swirls and whorls of gold…

Tamlin falls to his knees before me, his fingers—surprisingly gentle—finding my cheek. Slowly, softly, he tilts my head up. I only register the moisture on his hands and the sharp points of his fingers—his claws—when I see the specks of blood on his face. I swallow thickly, my throat bobbing.

“Sweetheart,” he calls me, and I wonder if he even registers what he just said. I stare up at him but I’m not entirely here, not really, not when all of a sudden I’m back there, back in my cell…

“It’s alright,” Tamlin reassures me, his voice hoarse, “you’re safe. It’s alright.” His fingers intertwine in my hair softly. I close my eyes, leaning into his touch until my head lies against the crook of his neck and shoulder.

For a moment we just kneel together, the both of us surrounded by the remains of the dead spriggans. I’m tired; my eyes are heavy, and I feel the desire to drift off to sleep. I know I won’t be able to do that any time soon, however, not with what I’ve just seen and remembered and all that today has seen me learn— 

I open my mouth, trying to speak. No sound comes out.

“They—“ I try to speak but my throat is sore. I swallow. “Terrible rumours.”

Tamlin frowns, a thumb caressing my back. “Rumours?”

“They called me…” I shake my head. “They called me your—your—“

Tamlin’s fingers tense. If they hadn’t been at my cheeks, I’m sure they would’ve been curling into fists.

“Don’t take any of what they said to heart,” he tells me, pulling back somewhat to look me in the eye. Those green eyes, those gold flecks like sunlight itself—they’re alive with worry, with hunger for the stuff that now coats his hands. “They were just looking for a meal. I… my denial of this place…” He pauses, and I don’t have the energy to tell him that’s not what I meant. “Their sickness was a reflection of my bitterness. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, trying to muster up the words to respond. Before I can, however, he glances over me and assesses my injuries, my wings and my ankle… “Let me get you somewhere safe. This place serves me no longer.”

That’s all I need to hear. My voice is hoarse as I ask, “Where?”

Tamlin glances away and to the manor, but although he’s here with me now, his gaze is far away. “I want to show you something. Something—something good.”

***

Tamlin’s touch on my wings prompts no feeling like the one in my dream, not in this scenario.

My head hangs low as he wordlessly presses the cool, damp cloth against the gouges the spriggans left me. I’ve long since returned from the memory of that place—that cold, dark cell that I spent so many years in—but the act of recalling it all has left a dark cloud over my head, one that even Tamlin isn’t sure how to handle. In fact, it’s been ages since I’ve felt this glum. 

I’d rather be here than anywhere else, though.

In an effort to make conversation, I mumble, “How did you know how to find me?”

Tamlin pauses—a long pause, one filled with thought. He lowers the cloth. “I had business at the manor.”

I nod, lifting my head ever so slightly in response. “So this place,” I gesture around us, “is to be your new home."

Tamlin nods.

The palace itself is beautiful; in fact, if I had to imagine the perfect home, it might just look something like this. The ocean, the forests, the chirping of birds, the sun shining bright… it’s a perfect place for a perfect Spring day. Even the small infirmary we sit in now beams in the sunlight, its marble walls welcoming in the sunlight like a lover’s embrace. Here, it feels ethereal. The place glows almost as much as me. I can see why he wanted to move here, even if the place does seem like nobody has touched it in years. No layers of dust anywhere, though.

“Do you…” Tamlin begins uncertainly, drawing my attention back to him, “want to talk about it?”

He seems on edge. What happened? Has my mood put him off? Or maybe he knows about the rumours. Maybe he thinks I started them, or maybe he’s regretting being my friend in the first place. I close my eyes momentarily, looking away, and when I look back at him my expression is as neutral as can be.

“About what?”

Tamlin responds, “About what they said.”

My shoulders slump. So he _doesn’t_ know, or at least that’s how it seems. Does he think whatever the spriggans said is the reason I’m upset? That they revealed something foul about their High Lord? I could let him believe that, but… the idea of keeping this a secret from him doesn’t sit right with me. Neither does telling him, apparently, but that’s just because I’m afraid that he might send me away if I tell him the extent of it. What’s the right thing to do?

_Tell him._

I chew on my bottom lip. “It wasn’t them.”

He frowns, lowering the cloth. “What do you mean?”

“The rumours I mentioned,” I respond, shifting on the table I sit on to face him better, “they weren’t from the spriggans. They were…” I press my lips together, looking to the side. “Someone at the Dawn Court has been spreading terrible lies. About… about us.”

I look back at him to find that there is confusion on his face, and then… anger. I close my eyes once more, preparing to be told off, to go away. The words that come from Tamlin’s lips are coolly inquisitive: he’s trying to keep his temper.

“And what is the nature of these rumours?”

“They…” I wrack my brain for them, but they’ve all blended into two looming words of despair: “They called me _Tamlin’s Harlot._ ”

His claws shred the cloth in his hand in two.

“Who?” He demands, barely suppressing a growl.

I could say Rowena. I could have him hurt her, which I expect he wants to do. But… what purpose would that serve? And the Captain had merely said that she expressed concern about the lies, not that she herself had spread the rumours… 

“I don’t know,” I whisper, a shake of my head following.

Tamlin takes a step back, loosing a breath. “This is my fault.”

Another shake of my head, only more insistent. “No. It’s not. We’re—we’re just friends, and we’re here for one another, and it’s not fair for them to ruin this for you—”

“Ruin this for _me?_ Aurora, I am a High Lord. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

“You don’t need to worry for me.”

“Well, I do,” he responds, “a lot.”

Something in my chest flutters at his words.

“Why?” I ask quietly, only after a brief pause.

He tenses, averts his gaze, and then… “Let them say what they want about me. I’m past caring what anybody thinks by now, and whether that’s good or bad for me, I don’t care. My court is in ruins and I only have myself to blame. Now… now all I want to focus on is rebuilding it, and yet I have no idea how to do that. I don’t need to focus on rumours like this when I have bigger things to worry about.”

Tears threaten to well in my eyes. _He’s angry with me._ “I’m sorr—”

“No,” Tamlin interrupts, looking back at me, “let me finish. I—you are so young, Aurora, and so sweet, and you have been so kind to me. I almost believe I don’t deserve any of it. I have nothing to give you and yet you are still here, even though I was unkind to you when we first met and even though my court, my manor, is in ruins. I don’t want you to be taken down with me, not down to the depths of which I’ve been dragged. When I say it’s my fault, it’s my fault. I have… a reputation, and now that reputation has scorned you.” 

One beat. Two beats. Three.

“I don’t care,” I say slowly, quietly.

Tamlin is still; incredibly, truly still. “What?”

I shake my head. “I don’t care what they say, or what they think. I—I was upset when I found out, yes, but I… as long as you don’t care, as long as you’re not going to send me away or tell me it’s my fault… all that matters is you.” 

The flush that creeps onto my cheeks is relentless.

Tamlin steps towards me slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “You are a gift, Aurora. One I don’t quite understand how I’ve acquired.”

He lifts my fingers to his mouth, kisses every one of them, and my heart beats like a bird trying to break free from a cage.

I try to respond, but that very bird has stolen the breath from my lungs. All I can do is stare up at him, my eyes wide and my lips parted with awe, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and never let go. It’s like we’re frozen in the moment—his lips against my skin, my gaze on him awed, unyielding… 

His gaze flickers between my eyes and my lips, or at least that’s what I thought happened, because in a second he is clearing his throat and offering me his hand.

“How are those wings feeling?”

I loose a breath, and with it, the tension in the room suddenly dissipates. “Better,” I respond with a smile, a roll of my shoulders following.

“Good enough for a tour of the house, I’d hope.”

The beam that slips from my lips is the brightest I’ve looked all day.

“It would be a pleasure,” I respond, hopping carefully from the table I’d been perched on.

“The pleasure, Aurora Morningsworn,” Tamlin responds, his voice low and teasing, “is all mine.”

***

Day shifts into night, and as Tamlin and I gather in the living room before the burning logs of the fire, I realise with stark clarity that my father should not at all be expecting me home tonight.

Even if he came looking, he wouldn’t know where to find me. Tamlin moved his court—and unless I’m mistaken, he hasn’t told anybody but me. No… I will stay here as long as I am welcome, and welcome I seem to be. With Tamlin’s arm resting on the back of the sofa behind me, I feel warm in his company, in his almost-embrace. He has long since untied his doublet to reveal the white undershirt underneath, and the golden strands of his hair glint as the flames flicker around us. 

He reaches his hand up to caress my jaw with his thumb. There is such softness in his eyes as he gazes upon me, a softness I have looked at him time upon time with before, a softness that makes my heart melt and my insides turn to mush… 

“Stay,” Tamlin begs. _Begs._

And so I do.

My fingers had splay against his chest, feeling, touching, wanting. His other hand brushes my hair back from my face and my eyes close at his touch. _This is not what friends do,_ I realise. _This cannot be what friends do._

_I hope this isn’t what friends do._

“Father will worry,” I whisper, my eyes opening. Even despite my words, I have no intention of leaving—no intention of returning to the Dawn Court for now.

“I will send word that you are safe, and that you simply do not wish to return home.”

“It won’t help the rumours,” I murmur.

“And yet I do not see you leaving,” Tamlin responds, his voice quiet—soft.

He’s right.

I nestle into him, and later, night shifts into day. 

I wake at dawn to the chirp of birds and the crash of the waves against the shore, and the very reminder of where I am sends a bolt of glee through me. I lie in amongst the sheets of my plush satin bed, the large balcony doors thrown open out of habit, and I inhale I savor the smell of the sea and the way it’s carried on the breeze. 

Tamlin had said that he would let me pick my rooms since we were the only two in my house, although he _did_ say that he had picked a place out for me already. But the sight of the one he had picked had been enough to ensure that I hadn’t needed to take one look at the others.

He had given me a direct view of the sea, of freedom, of the lands sprawling out to the palace’s sides—all the places I could explore, if I wish. The room itself is bright, made from marble accented with gold, little roses and leaves painted on as if the entire room were a canvas. Even the furniture is beautiful: it’s not as ornate as the bronze that makes up my bedroom at the Dawn Court, but it’s solid and cosy and comfortable. All of it matches the walls, white wood encrusted with gold, alongside little leaves where handles are concerned.

I love it here. I have never loved anything more. 

My rooms house a bedchamber, a sitting area with a small desk space, and of course a privy. Simply for being here, I would’ve been happy with just a bed and a balcony.

I throw the covers back, stretching my wings. They’re sore not only from sleeping on them folded all night but because of the wound I managed to get yesterday, and I wince at the sting of the four long scars that line the bottom of my left wing. _Yet another marring for me to host._

I sigh as I reach the balcony, my hands splaying against the railing. I close my eyes, taking in the scent of the sea as the waves crash below me, and I simply cannot help the smile that slips onto my features in response. Here, in the Spring Court, with Tamlin just a few rooms away, I feel like I can do anything.

Anything.

I glance back at my wings with a frown, then to the open ocean before me. The wound shouldn’t make flying too difficult; if anything, it will only sting a little. It’s healing fast. I shift my wings—back and forth, back and forth. They’re fine. Only a little bit painful.

I take a few steps back, a slow, mischievous grin slipping across my face…

And after a few backwards paces and a running jump, I soar.


	15. Tamlin

_THE NIGHT BEFORE..._

I had sensed her fear.

I had _sensed_ her _fear._

I’m old enough to know that’s not normal. At least, that’s _never_ happened to me before, and certainly not from so far away. So how is such a thing possible?

I think I know the answer, and that’s what terrifies me the most.

I pick up a quill, start writing a letter, and somehow the words spill onto the page without me even understanding how to register them. I sit there shirtless in my study scrawling at a piece of paper like a man in desperation, like a man who hasn’t just spent an entire day trying to act normal with the woman that might very well be his mate. Like the world doesn’t feel like it’s coming together and falling apart all at the same time.

 _Lucien,_ I think to myself, my eyes closing tight. _If anyone knows anything of this, it’s you._

I’ve heard of his luck with a mate—or, from the sounds of it, he’s been rather unlucky. But if he knows… if he can tell me how it feels, how to _know…_

I should know for certain. The mating bond should snap into place if it’s true. But I don’t think I have the patience to wait for that.

I lower my gaze to my hands as I clench and unclench my fists. She hadn’t been afraid of me—she hadn’t been afraid of my claws when I had touched her, like she had seen through the claws and seen _me._ In fact, isn’t that what she’s been doing the whole time? She has been kind, relentlessly so, even when I have been foul. She inspires me to do better even now. 

I think… I think, if I wanted anyone to be my mate, it would be her.

I want to see her. I glance to the door but—no. Visiting her at this hour, the night breeze cool as the stars above glitter, would be mighty inappropriate. I should go to bed. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I get to spend time with her again. She’s most likely asleep herself, too, especially after the day she had.

When I do sleep that night, _actually_ sleep, I don’t stare out at the stars before bed, and I don’t dream—at least not of bad things. 

Instead, I dream of her.

_PRESENT..._

My shovel digs into the ground with a hearty crunch.

Lucien arrives in the morning, much to my relief, because as soon as I awake the first thing on my mind is Aurora. Even now I wonder what she’s doing, _how_ she’s doing, if she’s awake. I don’t worry so much about her not showing her face yet—I imagine they keep her on a tight schedule at the Dawn Court, and I hope she’s getting as much sleep as she needs. Especially after the affair with the rumours, and especially after her run-in with the spriggans yesterday. 

I need something to do, and my vision of the sprawling gardens that this palace might one day host makes me impatient, so I begin digging the flower-beds myself. The palace itself has a small garden already, planted by my mother herself—much to the servants’ dismay—but my vision of a larger one remains. Lucien finds me, shirtless and sweaty, a large mound of dirt behind me— 

“Who have _you_ killed?” Lucien jests as he approaches me, his body language strangely relaxed. Is my change in demeanour that obvious? Is this what happens to me when Aurora is around for more than a few hours? Had I truly been so gloomy in that manor?

“Aurora is here,” I say, out of nowhere.

Lucien blinks. “Please tell me you're not digging a grave for Thesan's daughter _._ "

I look up at him incredulously, my brows arched in exasperation. “Cauldron, no, Lucien! She’s asleep—she stayed the night.”

Lucien’s brows quirk upwards suggestively, and he leans back to look me over. “I see.”

I glare at him. “Not like that.”

“And why the Hell not?”

“Because she’s not that type of woman, Lucien,” I sigh, “and yesterday, because of me, she almost died.”

Lucien blinks. “I feel like I’ve missed a lot.”

He has, I realise. And… I’ve missed having him around. Somebody to talk to, to jest with. I’ve never been very good with people—Lucien is the person that excels at that, the very reason he was my emissary for so many years. His skill with people shows in the fact that he’s here even now after all is said and done, still willing to be by my side in an instant.

Suddenly, things between us don’t feel so dark anymore.

I explain: about how Aurora and I met, about the hamper, about how she had healed me, encouraged me to do _more_ around the manor, about the visit to the Dawn Court and all that followed… all except the fact that I had sensed her fear. It’s the very reason I asked him to come here, so why is it so difficult to say the words aloud?

Lucien says, “You care for her. And she’s changed you.”

I shake my head. “I’m no different to the male I was before.”

“You’re talking to me without looking like you want to rip my head off,” Lucien responds, “so I think you might be in denial.” He pauses before continuing, “Is this… why you asked me to come here? Or did you merely need a hand at digging?”

I glance to my shovel. “You can help, if you’re offering.”

Lucien groans. “No getting out of it now, is there?”

I suppress the smile that slips onto my lips. No use letting him get _that_ arrogant, not yet. There’s still a lot left unsaid between us, but… right now, I need him.

“None,” I respond, willing another shovel into thin air.

I explain to him what we’re digging, what pattern to make, and then we get to work.

Things might not have always been great between us, but I have always considered Lucien a friend. Sometimes, the situation called for me to be more professional with him than friendly, that’s true… but I hadn’t begged for Amarantha to spare his life after his outburst during Feyre’s trial with the Middengard Wyrm just because he was my emissary.

He was my closest confidant, my closest friend. None of it would’ve hurt as bad if he meant anything less to me.

By the time I work up the courage to discuss what Lucien was called here for, our conversation has long since fallen into a comfortable silence. With that silence comes a sense of familiarity that seems strange to me, especially since we’ve never really done something like _this_ together before. But Mother knows we’ve been in difficult situations together, some more humorous than others, so I suppose that’s why the words slip from my lips when they do.

“I sensed her fear,” I say quietly. “Before I heard her scream, I sensed her fear.”

Lucien blinks up at me. I’m not sure he even registered what I said—we’ve been working together for so long that we had fallen into a comfortable silence. “What?”

My throat is tight. “Aurora.”

I can see the cogs of his mind turning, his metal eye whirring, and then… 

“Oh.”

“I didn’t realise how much I cared for her until… until I saw them all around her,” I ramble. “Now, when I look at her, it’s like—“

“Nothing in the world compares to touching her—to being near her.”

“Yes.”

Lucien’s intake of breath is a hiss. “It’s safe to say you’re doomed, my friend.”

 _My friend._ I tense, but not entirely because of those words. 

I pause in my digging and Lucien does too, the two of us leaning on our shovels. “Why does it feel…” I wave a hand dismissively, “wrong? She doesn’t know about this. And she’s so young—“

“You could just tell her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think she’d take it very well. She’s…” _Fragile,_ I think, but I don’t want to call her that. “Sensitive.”

Lucien snorts. “Your mate. _Sensitive_.”

I glower at him. “Is it so hard to believe that she would be good and kind?”

Lucien’s face falls. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a brief pause between us before he continues slowly, “Elain is… the same. Soft. If I had been in my right mind when I’d seen her get Made, if I hadn’t been overwhelmed with the… primality of the mating bond, I might have withheld telling her, too. To respect her wishes. She—she was in love with a human man.”

Lucien pauses for a little while, and I avert my gaze. He continues, “The two of them might even get along, from the sounds of it.”

I don’t want to think about that.

“I wish I could say I’m happy for you,” I say quietly, “but it seems I must wish you luck, instead.”

“Tamlin?”

I turn to find Aurora standing not too far away, her hand lingering hesitantly on the glass panes of the double doors which lead to the garden. Her gaze lingers on my form, shirtless and—what some would believe to be—indecent, but she quickly looks away, her gaze flickering uncertainly between Lucien and myself.

“Aurora,” I smile, straightening. “Good morning.”

Her shoulders relax somewhat at the look on my face, and I realise all of a sudden that she wears one of my mother’s old gowns—pink, embroidered with vines and pretty roses. I hadn’t even realised that some of her things were still here. I’d given Aurora a trunk of clothes I’d found that she might see fit to wear, but I’d never thought that my mother, as obsessed as she was with fashion, would’ve left anything behind. Then again, she _had_ owned troves upon troves of clothes.

“You look lovely,” I tell her.

Her smile is soft, bashful. “Thank you. Who’s your friend?” She asks, making her way slowly down the marble steps as if not to intrude.

Lucien gives Aurora a bow that borders on dramatic. “Lucien Vanserra, my lady.”

Aurora’s lips curve upwards somewhat. “Yes, I remember your face now.”

“How reassuring that you would be able to forget it in the first place,” Lucien jests.

Aurora beams at him and the sight turns my insides to mush. I hadn’t thought the two of them laughing and joking could bring me so much joy.

What Feyre had done to lead me to believe that there had been something between her and Lucien doesn’t even cross my mind anymore.

Aurora’s eyes flicker between our shovels. “Digging? For what?”

Lucien glances in my direction and I respond, “I thought I’d get started on the garden. Lucien offered to help.”

Aurora’s brows rise. “Offered? Or did you force the poor male into doing so?”

Lucien responds jokingly, “Finally someone sees the truth of it.”

Aurora giggles. _Giggles._

“Hold that thought,” she says, the smile still on her face as she holds up a finger—and then disappears back into the house. 

I stare after her with nothing but awe and affection in my eyes, and Lucien sees.

“Cauldron boil me,” he mutters, his shovel digging into the ground again—hard. “You really _are_ doomed.”

***

Lucien ends up staying longer than expected, and truth be told, I really don’t mind.

At some point, Aurora insists on getting to know the two of us better—she wants to hear stories, she says, because she realises that she doesn’t know very much about us—about me, in particular, and what I like to do in my spare time—at all. So we tell her, forgetting our past differences for a moment: about how we met, about meddlesome, boyish dalliances into town, about how Lucien became my emissary, about women scorned and fights won and lost. She loves it all.

There’s a beam on her face by the time we run out of stories. The three of us are taking a momentary break from gardening to sit at a table under a parasol, shielded from the sun, which seems incredibly hot for a day in which Spring hasn’t even hit the outside world yet. Aurora’s peach ice tea certainly helps, however, which is what she had come back into the garden wielding earlier after disappearing back into the house.

“And you?” Lucien asks, nodding to her in thanks as she passes him a glass, “what does the lady like to do in her spare time?”

Aurora’s cheeks flush. “I’m not very interesting,” she responds. “I mostly read or train. Most of the time I read in my rooms, but I get most of my books from the palace library. I like history.” She settles down in a chair, the light blue of her dress the very image of the sky above. “Gardening is a newer hobby, so I’m likely nowhere near as skilled as the High Lord.” She shoots me a kind smile.

Lucien sips his tea. “Tamlin has an affinity to forget to forget to  _ water  _ plants,” Lucien says, “so while he might be great at growing them, he’s terrible at remembering to maintain them.”

I shoot him a glare. “That’s not true.”

“We had gardeners for a reason.”

“Because the gardens were so big.”

“Also because you have the memory of a fish.”

Aurora giggles, and whatever embarrassment I had felt from Lucien’s comment vanishes when I see just how happy she really is.

“Well, Lucien has the tendency to—”

“Aurora!”

The male that marches towards us is winged, Peregryn, and I vaguely remember seeing him at the Dawn Court when I had visited Aurora that day after Lucien’s first visit. But that doesn’t change the fact that within seconds I am standing, a sneer which borders on a snarl on my face. 

Lucien puts a hand on my arm; Aurora doesn’t see, already having turned to face the angry approacher. It’s only then that I realise how primal that urge to fight had been, how much it had spurred from the fact that the sound of some other male had such  _ anger  _ in his tone, that it had all been directed at my  _ mate _ — 

“Aidos,” Aurora says timidly, standing, and I don’t fail to notice how she clutches at the material of her dress, not letting go. “It’s—good to see you.” 

“Don’t give me that,” he replies, still marching towards us, “we’ve been looking for you since yesterday—”

“Well, Tamlin sent a letter that I’m well and safe, so you shouldn’t have.”

“Your father sent me to take you home,” he says, eyeing me harshly—the look of a man who has nothing but distaste for me. “Cora’s been looking for you, too.”

“I’m quite happy here, thank you,” she responds quietly. Aidos comes to a halt a few metres away, and there is nothing but muted anger on his features as Aurora continues, “I have no intention of leaving so soon.”

“Please don’t make me tell Thesan you refused to come home. You know he’ll send the Captain if I do.”

Aurora chews on the inside of her cheek. She looks back at me, looks at me for guidance, but I come up empty.

My lips part, but no sound slips from my lips. Why do I keep being thrown in situations like this? Feyre, when I was unable to do anything to help her under the Mountain lest I make the situation worse, no matter how much I wanted to—and now… it’s in my best interests  _ not  _ to anger the closest High Lord I have to an ally. And yet the thought that she might return to that place, the place where they’re saying such terrible things about her; about  _ us…  _

“It would be wise,” Lucien starts, slowly standing, “to return home, if only to avoid a… political incident.”

Ever the emissary. He looks back at me, a look in his eyes that says  _ sorry.  _ I clench my fists. I hate the fact that he’s right.

Aurora lowers her head, letting out a sigh of defeat, and I see that look in her face from yesterday return as she looks back at Aidos. 

“I don’t want to go,” she half whispers, half murmurs.

Aidos merely stares at her, his fists clenching and unclenching. I step towards her and she looks at me, her eyes wide and expectant; I can’t help but think that she looks helpless, so helpless, as my fingers intertwine in her hair and she looks up at me, her eyes wide.

“The ball isn’t too far away,” I tell her softly, my thumb caressing her chin, “and if we’re lucky, perhaps I’ll see you again sooner.”

She sniffles, and I realise there are tears in her eyes. “The ball  _ is  _ that far away.”

I let out a soft huff of laughter. “I’ll send you letters every day.”

Her lips twist to the side in thought. “Every day?”

“Every day.”

She lets out a breath, averting her gaze. “Alright. We… you won’t forget to have an outfit made for the ball?”

“I  _ did  _ promise I’d incorporate gold or ivory, just for you.”

She smiles—actually smiles, and despite the sadness behind her eyes, it’s a relief to see that she can still do that despite having to return home.

“Oh, come  _ on, _ ” Aidos hisses, his arms folding, “it’s not like you’re never gonna see each other again.”

I turn back to look at Aidos with a piercing look in my eyes. “If you do not find out who started those rumours,” I promise him slowly, coolly, “then I will find out myself. And I can assure you, the result will not be pretty.”

Aidos’ eyes are like fire. “You don’t give me orders.”

“Enough, the both of you,” Aurora says, her tone exasperated. 

She makes to move backwards, my fingers parting from her hair, but I pull her closer gently and my fingers find her waist. I glance between her eyes and lips, wondering, waiting, and then— 

She must see the look in my eyes, because when she leans up and presses a kiss to my cheek, it feels like my cheek has caught flame.

“I look forward to next seeing you, High Lord,” she says softly, pulling away from me with a smile.

All I can do is stare at her and nod.

She nods goodbye to Lucien and I see, out of the corner of my eye, that he gives her a wave in response. Wordlessly, she makes her way over to Aidos. With one last smile in my direction, one that drowns out the daggers Aidos throws my way, they vanish—winnowing right back to the Dawn Court, no doubt. 

I throw myself back into my seat and bury my head in my hands with a groan.


	16. Aurora

"Aurora, this is completely unacceptable.”

I keep my arms folded, my gaze drawn to the view from the window of the room that my father and I occupy. The Captain is here, too, a silent presence as he leans against the wall to my father’s left, and his arms folded in the same position as mine. His gold hair is unkempt, as if he's been too busy with worry to style it in that same beautiful wavy way he always does, and his soil-rich eyes, so much like my own, host dark circles underneath. If I wasn't so annoyed, I might have worried about whether he’s been sleeping.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Thesan demands, exasperated. Not angry—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my father angry, and especially not with me.

“There’s nothing to say,” I mumble, my gaze unmoving from outdoors.

My father lets out a breath. “I’m going to have to ground you.”

“That’s fine.”

Thesan pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine? You’re not going to protest?”

“At least I’ll be away from those rumours if I’m locked in my room.”

“We are looking into that,” the Captain says quietly.

“Don’t bother,” I mutter, my finger tracing the pattern on the arm of the chair absent-mindedly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Slander against you _does_ matter, Aurora,” the Captain argues back sternly, “especially if it’s the kind that made you so—so…”

I clench my jaw. I don’t want to think about how I’d been after he had told me about the rumours—how close I had been to teetering over the edge. Going to see Tamlin was the only thing that had made me feel better.

“Promise me,” Thesan interrupts, “that you won’t ever do that again.”

I look back at him with a glare. My father’s gaze, for once, matches the temperature of my own. He seems to say _two can play at this game,_ and then… and then his gaze shifts, such sadness in his upswept eyes that I wonder just what dark place his mind has gone to.

“Aurora, I cannot…” His throat sounds tight. “I cannot bare to see—to see you—“

“Thesan,” the Captain utters warmly, his tone laced with worry. He leans forward, ready to comfort his mate at a moment’s notice.

“I almost lost you,” Thesan says, and my own throat tightens at the sound of my father’s distress. “ _We_ lost you once, and—and once more you were gone, and I—I thought it had happened again. That something—someone—had done something to you. You cannot… _I_ cannot go through that heartbreak again.”

My eyes threaten to well with tears as I whisper, looking away, “I’m sorry.”

Thesan shakes his head and swallows, his throat bobbing. He waves a hand. “I don’t want you locked up in your rooms. Not—I will not do that to you, not when you’ve just had your freedom returned. You may use your wings, but you will only leave the palace—and the skies around it—for training and lessons.”

The Captain utters quietly, “I was hoping for Aurora to accompany me into town at some point.”

Thesan looks at his mate for a moment, and then he nods. “Very well. You are accompanied by myself, your tutors, or Auralis—nobody else. Is that clear?”

Auralis. Sometimes I wonder if my father named me after the Captain, the man he loves most. I mumble my response, _yes,_ and I hear my father’s sharp intake of breath.

“Good. Now… I have business to tend to,” Thesan says, “but I will see you both at dinner tonight.”

With a squeeze of his mate’s hand, Thesan leaves the Captain and I alone. The door clicks shut behind him.

I close my eyes as defeat weighs my shoulders down. I don’t really feel like leaving this spot; I don’t really feel like doing much of anything. All of a sudden, this place, although it glitters with the sights I love and cherish, doesn’t make me feel so great anymore.

The Captain paces forwards, and softly, he asks, “Are you alright?”

I shake my head and give a lazy shrug of my shoulders.

“Did something… did Tamlin—“

“Tamlin did nothing,” I respond quickly. “He’s been nothing but kind to me, and he expects nothing in return.”

After a brief pause, the Captain murmurs, “I see. Well, how about we—”

“Captain,” I murmur, looking back to him, “I really don’t feel like talking.”

The Captain glowers. “You may call me by my name, you know.”

I sigh. “What am I supposed to do here, Ca—Auralis? I… I was so happy in the Spring Court, and Tamlin is so lovely and kind and… and _good_ to me, and now… now I just want to _see_ him again—“

Auralis, to my surprise, lets out a huff of laughter. He takes a seat nearby. “So much for just holding hands.”

It’s my turn to glower at him. “So what if I care for him? I won’t pretend any longer. I care for him, Cauldron boil me. I care for him _so_ much and he—he’s so far _away_ —“

“Aurora,” he chuckles, very much amused, “you will see him in two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” I repeat, standing as I throw my hands into the air in exasperation. “It might as well be a lifetime!”

Amusement still prompts the edges of his lips into a smile as he leans back in his chair. “You really _do_ love him.”

“Not…” I press my lips together, frowning, and I won't lie and say that I'm not embarrassed when I turn away. “That’s not appropriate to say. Not that word. But he— _I_ just want to…”

I clench my fists together in front of me, mimicking a squeezing motion that I don’t entirely understand.

Auralis raises his brows. “Squeeze him like a pet?”

“Not like that!”

He grins. “You are indeed mighty amusing, my sweet.”

I sigh, my mood lightened just a little, and Auralis crosses the room to put his large hands on my small shoulders.

“I have an idea for what might make the time pass sooner,” he says soothingly, “if you are willing to accompany me.”

My eyes light up. “Where?”

“Town,” he responds. “I have to get some things for the party, and I think, since it’s my first time arranging one, I might need some womanly aid.”

I gape at him. “You? Arranging a party?”

He glowers at me, folding his arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”

I snicker. “A little.”

Auralis’ cheeks flush. “I’m the mate of the High Lord. I have _some_ responsibilities. Technically, I’m Lord—and since there’s no Lady around to deal with the party preparations…” he shrugs. “I took it upon myself to tend to them.”

I glance over him, considering, assessing, and then... 

“Alright,” I respond, “but you can’t go into town in your armour. I won’t allow it. First… first, we find you something pretty to wear. Something befitting of the High Lord’s mate.”

Auralis pales. “Oh… great.”

***

Auralis’ hair is coated with gold flakes as we take two griffons for our ride into town, the gold and ruby of his doublet swishing in the wind. I haven’t before realised how slim he is through all that armour—he’s muscular, yes, but his body has a form much like Tamlin’s own. With a cloak around his shoulders to shield him from the particularly chilly day, he looks like a handsome hero from the stories my nurses used to tell me as a child. I can easily picture him riding into battle on the back of a golden-feathered griffon, a glimmering sword and shield in hand.

The streets are wide enough for us to ride our griffons through town the way that horses might traipse through the Spring Court. People stop and stare as we pass; I try to tell myself that they’re staring merely because of who we are, that they’re simply staring at Auralis in all his finery, but I’m not entirely sure I believe myself. Their gazes on me make me feel nauseous, a reminder of the rumours and glares I surely await back at court, and I want nothing more than to fall into Tamlin’s arms and hide from the world.

I can’t do that, though, and so I try to focus on what we came here for: party supplies. Auralis put together a list before we left, ever the pragmatist, and slowly we make our way through town in an attempt to find them. Eventually, we manage to acquire many items on our list: shimmering materials of ruby and gold, gold paint which glitters like a starry night sky, white kohl liner, countless different colours of rouge… the majority of these things we order and have sent to the palace so we don’t end up weighing our poor griffons down with the weight of it all.

It’s only once we’re almost done for the day that I spy a little shop out of the corner of my eye, one which name stands out—and for a reason. _Naxos’ Necessities_ is the latest courtly craze, the very place where the majority of fancy dresses in the Dawn Court are made. It hosts a vast array of jewellery, dresses, doublets, and trinkets… or so I’ve heard.

“Naxos’ Necessities!” I gasp, turning to look at Auralis. “I’ve heard of them. All the courtiers rave about their garments; apparently they’re beautiful. We should pop in there and see if there’s anything more we could nab for the party.”

“I was told that somebody would come to us to design our outfits,” the Captain frowns.

I roll my eyes, dismounting from my griffon. She whirrs with approval as I lead her to a resting place nearby, undoubtedly intended for horses. I murmur a soft _good girl_ to her and caress her feathers as I respond, “It makes no difference whether we’re in a fancy room or a shop—we might as well visit while we’re here. Besides, we don’t have to get Naxos themselves to design the _whole_ outfit. Don’t tell me you care about such snobbish formalities, Captain?”

Auralis shakes his head, and with a smile, I push open the door to the building.

The first thing I notice is all the rose gold. Walls accented with bronze, appliances of the same sort… even the legs of furniture are polished in the same pinky hue that surrounds the room in a sort of heavenly light. The waiting room we find ourselves isn’t very bright, not when the only windows in the large room are at the top and are small in size. But from an open door leading to a back room, I can see it’s certainly bright in those rooms. Fitting rooms?

I wonder how in the Mother’s name people had started coming here. It doesn’t _look_ like anywhere any citizens of my father’s court would deign to visit. Who had started this craze in the first place? Most would walk in, sneer, and then leave again. It's... tacky, I realise.

“This is…” The Captain blinks at his surroundings, stunned at the excessive amount of shiny things.

“Quiet,” I smile, not wanting to be rude. And just as well—because in the next moment, a figure emerges from the bright back room that I had been looking into moments before. 

That somebody is covered almost head to foot in feathers, no hair in sight. A faerie, certainly, though the more bird-like kind. Feathers replace where hair might be on a normal High Fae, cascading down their back in a way that mimics flowing locks, and their arms are heavily feathered—as if thousands of years ago their kind had wings themselves. I understand why the place is filled with so much bronze now; these types of faerie have an insatiable hunger, the type that prompts them to horde endlessly.

This must be Naxos. They wear a beautiful dress of orange silk, bright against the spotted grey of their feathers, and their round nose might make them look sweet if not for the array of sharp teeth that line their mouth when they flash myself and the Captain a smile.

Beside me, I feel the Captain tense.

“Good morning,” I smile in greeting.

“Lord—little Lady,” the faerie bows, “what an honour to have the both of you in my humble shop.”

“Humble?” I blink with raised brows as a smile graces my features. “You have all the ladies in my father’s court talking about your designs.”

“Some of the men, too,” the Captain mumbles, coughing. I know what he’s insinuating.

The faerie’s cheeks flush gold. “Yes, well, I make what the ladies ask. And the males, too. I do not restrict myself to what is considered, ah…” a pause, “modest. That is not the right word, but you understand.”

I nod. “Would you perhaps have time to discuss outfits for the party with us?”

The faerie’s eyes widen. “For you, mistress,” they respond, “anything.”

Naxos themselves measures me for my dress. After some discussion, they draw up a sketch for me: white embroidered with little gold flowers, particularly around the shoulders and arms, and a straight-across neckline which descends into a flowing cape which cascades down my back. It's... alright, but I don't know what else I want. It’s not like anything I’d particularly wear, but it’s elegant, and it’ll look beautiful with my hair in an updo flaked with gold. And my wings… yes, I can picture it now.

The Captain chooses to wait to have his measurements taken, though I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s eager to get back to the palace or because somehow he doesn’t trust Naxos. There’s a faint smile on my face as we leave the shop, and just before we mount our griffons again, I can’t help but curl my arms around the Captain’s and lean in close.

“Can we do this again, please?” I ask softly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Not just because I’m grounded and I want to get out… I enjoyed spending time with you today.”

Something flashes in Auralis’ eyes—pain, longing, something that makes my heart clench. My brows furrow in concern before he forces a smile onto his face, one I might think was in-genuine if not for the kindness in his eyes.

“It would be my pleasure, Aurora,” he says, pulling me closer, and then he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

We journey back to the palace mostly in silence, although it’s a comfortable one rather than awkward. Auralis’ mind, however, seems far off, and while before he had been continuously steering his griffon in the right direction, making alterations to our course every now and again, he now simply allows the beast to roam back using its own—intelligent, mind you, as all griffons are—mind. _Always in control:_ that’s how the Captain usually seems. So why does he seem so far away now, the look in his eye glazed over, after our little encounter as we left the shop? 

The very thought of the sadness in his eyes, the terror… 

I have to stop myself from letting my tears spill onto my griffon’s golden-orange feathers as our griffons guide us home.


	17. Tamlin

“This is ridiculous,” I glower.

Lucien, it seems, thinks the same. He’s not even trying to hide his amusement as we stare at my reflection in the mirror, donned in a doublet of ivory and gold and pants that match. I look like a plaything—nobody to be taken seriously, and definitely not the High Lord of Spring. I hadn’t realised just how much I loved my greens and dusty rose. Now, I’m wondering if I should invest in some new clothes.

“She said ivory or gold,” Lucien snickers. “It’s not my fault those colours make you look positively bridal. Your pretty hair certainly doesn’t help.”

I glare at him. “You know, Lucien, I haven’t completely forgiven you yet. You’re on thin ice.” And even so… I’m teasing.

Lucien’s smile falters only somewhat, but the amusement remains. “And yet I’m still here.”

Lucien has been visiting more than often lately, and I won’t lie and say that I’m not pleased about it. Day after day, it gets easier to laugh—and day after day, it gets a little easier to be without Aurora. That’s only because I know I’ll be seeing her again soon; she still occupies my thoughts and teases me in my dreams. I’m ashamed to admit that she has occupied my dreams in every sort of way, every sort of position… and those dreams are the most difficult part of her absence. The mornings in which I wake up and she is not in my bed are the worst.

Kissing her fingers… it’s not enough. I want to taste her on my lips, want to savour her on my tongue, want to bury myself between her legs— 

“You know, when you think of something particularly raunchy, your eyes glaze over.”

I growl in annoyance, shoving him in a way that isn’t entirely serious. Lucien merely laughs, and it’s one of the best sounds I’ve heard in a long time.

I step off the dais I stand on, tugging on the strings that had fastened the damn thing together. I want the doublet off—now. 

“Enough of this,” I decide, growling, “let’s go hunt.”

When Lucien leaves, however, that’s when I’m left alone—alone in the court that I have made for myself, the one I must now look to rebuild. Sometimes, I dig; the hours blend into a passing haze when I do that, but I’m making steady progress on the gardens. Sometimes I cheat and use my magic, but I prefer to put the work into it myself. There’s something special about it; there’s something in knowing that I did this myself. Call it something primal, something ancient, but it makes me feel as if the home I’m making is really mine—like an ancient male building a forest hut for his mate and children.

Some day, I shall have that here.

Other times, I work on rebuilding far more than the palace I am soon to live in. I put my plans into action—plans that I have created since the last time I saw Aurora, an attempt to occupy myself in her absence—and they certainly cost me some coin, but I call it an investment. I call in builders across Prythian, many from the Dawn Court, although it isn’t Aurora that helps with that, but rather Lucien. He has friends everywhere, it seems, although this very fact had been the reason he was positioned as my emissary anyway.

In doing this for me, his debt to me has been repaid. The topic of whether or not he will return to a position in my court, however, is one we haven’t yet discussed.

The builders work fast and I pay them well, though. Some have even displayed interest in my plans themselves, and I delight in knowing it’s that easy to entice potential new members into staying. Perhaps my reputation—and my court’s—wasn’t so badly stained… or maybe they just want a chance to be part of something new.

I know for a fact that I still have a long way to go.

I also know that I want Aurora to be the first to see what I’ve put together. Call it emissary business—Thesan will have to agree. I’m on my way inside to compose a letter when I see that one has come from Aurora, and with a little too much haste, I grab it, tearing it open as I head inside.

_Tamlin,_

_Again I write to you with a heavy heart._

My own sinks deep into my stomach, deep enough for me to wonder if it’s really mine at all.

_I almost feel silly writing this letter to you; silly, because there are so many less fortunate than I, many who hunger each month and don’t get to sleep in a bed as soft or as grand as my own. And yet I find myself yearning for you, your court, and yes, even Lucien, despite the fact that I only met him in passing. Your court has brought me so much joy, your presence more so, and now that I find myself back in my home, in a place that I once loved so much, I realise how empty my life truly has become._

I have to stop in the middle of the hallway for a moment, have to wait for the aching in my chest to cease, and then I begin to read again. The thought that I can do nothing to help _—_

_I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing to you. It might only make me more upset. I just wish I could see you, if only to hold you for a moment—to have a semblance of the Spring Court that I have grown to love so much. The court that I love because it is yours; because the spring sun warms me far more than the rising dawn ever could. There’s something wrong in that, and yet…_

_And yet you have made me realise how much I am missing. Friends who won’t reprimand me about seeing you—friends who I can laugh and joke with. Friends who mean a lot more… like you mean to me._

_There’s so much I wish to say. I feel it tug on my chest like a weight that is slowly pulling me down. Even now, I feel like I’m being dramatic. I simply cannot find the words to write to you, to explain how I am truly feeling, and it doesn’t help the heaviness in my heart at all._

_I know we’ll see each other at the ball. It’s just not soon enough. I’m sorry if that’s too forward._

The ball—just over a week away now… Aurora is right. It’s far too long. 

_Please write me back as soon as you are able; I know you’re very busy, I know your work’s important, that you are a High Lord. But your letters are the thing that brings me joy at the moment, perhaps one of the only things, and therefore I must be selfish. I must ask you to shower me with as much attention as you can spare without making your day null._

_I miss you._

_Yours — brightly once I return,_ _  
_ _Aurora_

I crumple the letter in my hand as my fist clenches in anger. Even the strokes of her quill are less elegant, less neat, as if she simply doesn’t have the energy to write but is trying her hardest. Like it’s the only way to get her thoughts down. Her only escape.

I have to lean an arm against the stone of the hallway to steady myself, my head spinning. Is this how Feyre had felt? Had I… had I really been so blind? After the mountain, I had just wanted to pretend that everything was fine; I was too afraid to admit the truth. I couldn’t _see_ the truth. And now… now that I know how it feels, now that it’s been turned on me like this, now that Aurora is the one in a place so miserable, so filled with despair— 

A burst of rage slips from me before I know what’s happening. 

No. No. Not again, not again, not again—

I barely register the sound of shattering glass around me as I fall to my knees, my power unleashing in a wave of destruction all around me. Claws—my claws are suddenly free from the confines I barely have any control over, my eyes clenching tightly shut. If I just—if I just drown out the emotion, drown out the force of my power as it overwhelms me, then maybe—maybe I can overcome it, maybe I can pretend that everything is fine, everything is fine, _everything is fine—_

I can’t… I can’t lose somebody again. I have to see her—have to make sure she’s alright. I can’t—

The sob that slips from my body forces me to fold my knees up into my chest in some sort of search for comfort. I know in this moment I look nothing like the High Lord I should be, nothing like the male I want to be, but I’m not sure if I was ever a good High Lord—if I’ll _ever_ be a good High Lord— 

Never mind being a good male.

I want to see her, want to make sure she’s safe; even if I just make sure she’s safe in her bed, sound asleep, even if I can just—just see that she’s safe and well and that Amarantha’s blood-stained hands haven’t gotten hold of her again, again, just as they had with Feyre— 

She can’t see me like this. She can’t—she can’t see me this _weak._ And if I go and see her, somebody will see me slip into the palace; there’s no way I’ll be able to slip past another High Lord’s wards, no way I won’t cause a diplomatic incident, no way I won’t make it worse for the both of us— 

_I need you,_ I whisper into the bond—the bond I’m not even sure she’s aware of. _I need you._

And when she doesn’t appear, when she doesn’t answer my call… 

The only person I have left at the end of the day is myself.


	18. Tamlin

I have to do _something._ I’m tired of doing nothing, nothing, even when it’s been impossible for me to do anything else.

I sat there while Amarantha had tortured Feyre, while she had put her through trial after trial, and true—what could I have done to help her? What would an outburst from me achieve other than put Feyre through more pain once Amarantha knew what broke me most? But I dream about it even now—how my instincts had screamed to help her, to protect her, had wanted to surge me forwards and tear, tear, tear at the red-haired personification of evil until she was nothing but ribbons—

And yet I had pushed them down, had known that those urges were the thing that would see Feyre killed—well and truly killed.

And then she _was_ being killed, wrongly killed even after passing all of the Trials. Once I was able to move, once the pain from the knife in my chest had subsided, I had clawed, _clawed_ my way towards her, to Rhys...

But I had sat around for fifty years before that. I had sent Andras to his death; I played a fatal game with Amarantha, one that I lost. One that I’m still losing. I was afraid; so afraid of what it might mean if the human who would break the curse was found... and, truthfully, I had hoped that if I ignored the problem long enough, it might go away.

I have to be different. I’m tired of the people that I love being taken from me. I cannot let it happen again.

I have to try, at the very least.

So when I winnow into the Dawn Court and demand to speak with Thesan then and there, it’s with urgency. Strength. And when he is summoned looking rather dishevelled, I know he hasn’t bothered to make himself look decent in order to show his dissatisfaction with me. And certainly, he’s not pleased.

I am ushered into his private quarters as his guards close elaborate double doors behind me. The room is bathed in a pinkish haze, walls of dusty rose accented with gold, although the majority of the walls themselves are lined with endless bookcases. A study, from the looks of it, with tasteful furniture and plush sofas scattered about the room. A few doors lead off to what is the rest of his chambers: a bedroom, privy, whatever else the High Lord of Dawn deigns to have.

Thesan sits behind the desk in front of me. I choose to stand. Other than the two of us, his Captain remains, a silent presence as his arms fold from his position near the balcony.

He does not look pleased; there's a slight furrow on his brow as he glances between us. Thesan's mate, too, looks just as tousled as him. I might tease, might wonder if I've interrupted something, and yet I don't care enough to ask. 

“Tamlin,” Thesan sighs with exasperation, tightening the ruby and gold tie of his robe, “what happened to the use of emissaries?”

I shrug. “I seem to have a significant lack of them these days.”

Thesan frowns. It's the deepest frown I've ever seen on his features, I think. I'm relieved to know I have just a bit of wit in me—I'm not the best with words.

I continue, “I came to formally request that I might take Aurora on some emissary business in my lands. I have something I would like for her to see. If you are wary, send guards. I will welcome them into my court.”

The Captain mumbles, looking out at the view near from the balcony, "Straight to business, then."

I look at him, my gaze piercing, testing. Why does he think he can talk to me like that, and why in the Mother's name is he in such a foul mood?

Perhaps I really _did_ interrupt something.

Thesan’s brows rise. “The last time my daughter went to your court, she did not return.”

I respond, “Do you really have that little faith in your men?”

“Even the best of my men,” Thesan responds coolly, “would be foolish to go against a High Lord. No, Tamlin, it’s simply the fact that I’m not stupid. Will you—please, sit.”

I loose a long breath, my hands folding behind my back. I do not sit; I'm too dead-set on my goals for this, too restless to be caged.

Instead, I respond, “Builders from your court have been aiding me in the rebuilding of my own. I pay them, of course, but I know where their loyalties lie, and I’d be foolish to jeopardise that by stealing away Aurora. I have nobody to defend my lands in the first place—and you’ll remember that it was my bride that was stolen away in the night, Thesan. Rhysand did that to me. It was _not_ the other way around.” 

Again, the Captain tests me: "The Lady Feyre said it was daytime when she left you."

Thesan casts a glance in his mate's direction and quickly responds, before I get the chance to snarl something back, “We’re not discussing that now. Heavens, we’ll be here all evening.”

“Even so,” I respond, “Aurora has written to me about how miserable she is here. If not for me, do it for her. She has grown to love my court. Give her a semblance of happiness, Thesan, before the ball. So that she does not crumble while waiting for it.”

One beat. Two beats. The Captain looks over at his mate, waiting, wondering, and then—

“What would you know of my daughter crumbling, Tamlin?” Thesan demands, his voice... not quite quiet, but grave, certainly. There is only the hint of a threat in his tone. “She is stronger than she looks.”

I clench my fists, folding them behind my back. “She won’t remain so if she stays here much longer. Give her… give her a breath of fresh air. Please.” 

I turn away—it’s not like me to beg, not unless forced to, not unless faced with no other choice. Rhysand had given me no other choice when he had first arrived at my court and seen Feyre, when he had told me to get on the ground and beg. I had done it. I had begged for Feyre, begged for her life to be spared, begged for her to remain in my life a fraction longer. And for Aurora…

I’d beg, and beg, and beg. Even if there was another way, I'd beg until there's no air left.

Quietly, I look to the Captain and ask, “Have you figured out who started those rumours yet?”

The Captain's shoulders tense, straightening. Thesan is quiet, his expression blank, but the Captain—

Anger. He is so, so very angry.

 _Good,_ I think to myself. _A crack in their defences._

“I will think about it,” Thesan answers, perhaps sensing his mate's rage—perhaps he wants to speak, for something to fill the air other than the bitterness of vexation. "About allowing her to visit."

 _Now,_ I want to demand, those High Lord instincts ramming against the confines of my head, rearing to be let out. _Now, now, now or never—_

I nod.

“If I accept, she will be there for two hours only. No more than that.”

I nod.

“My mate will be going with you. And men of his choosing.”

Again, I nod. The Captain's head whips around to look at his mate.

“If she leaves their sight for a second—”

“This sounds an awful lot like acceptance, Thesan.”

“ _Tamlin_ ," Thesan insists, annoyed.

“I know, Thesan. I know. I would be—I was…” I _was_ the same. I was protective with Feyre, and even now, after my outburst the other day… all I want to do is protect the woman I love.

Love.

Aurora Morningsworn…

I love her. And why shouldn’t I? She’s my mate—I’d love her even if she didn’t love me. Perhaps she doesn’t. Perhaps she won’t. But I don’t want to think about that right now.

If she refused the mating bond…

It might be the final thing that breaks me.

I continue, “I was… the same.”

Something softens in Thesan’s eyes.

“You care for her a great deal.”

I swallow and nod, looking away.

“You understand my hesitation, then,” Thesan says slowly, “after seeing how you spoke to the woman you previously cared for at the High Lords meeting.”

 _A dangerous topic to approach._ Thesan knows it; I know it. And yet I have to commend him for his bravery.

Tense, I respond, “I would never speak to Aurora like that.”

“I’m sure you thought that about Feyre, too.”

My jaw clenches. “What do you want from me, Thesan?”

“I don’t know, Tamlin,” he sighs, “I don’t know.”

What more could I possibly say? What more can I do to apologise, to redeem myself in the eyes of all who saw me at my worst? I’m sure they’ve done things, terrible things, after the horrors of Under the Mountain. Why is my trauma any different? Why is—why is Feyre’s, even, any different to mine?

"Is there anything else?" Thesan asks, his voice quieter now.

I shake my head, barely even phased at his dismissive tone. I don't care, not when I'm here for Aurora, when I'll do anything, put up with anything, to see her safe and well and happy and—

“There is one thing."

Thesan looks over me with only a slight furrow of his brows.

“I am trying,” I admit slowly. I pause, trying to think of the words to describe just what I want to say, but it's so hard, so difficult when I was trained for war, to fight, to protect, not—not this, not diplomacy, not...

Calm down. I can feel my nerves taking over. Calm down.

I close my eyes momentarily, looking away, and when I look back at Thesan I force myself to take a breath.

“I was at my worst. I... Even when I don’t truly understand where I went wrong at times, I…” I swallow. “I am _trying_.”

I vanish before I can get a look at his expression in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say is that I love Tamlin trying to be better. That is all. That is ALL.


	19. Thesan

_The mist that shrouds the mountain is cold—far too cold for the High Lord of the Dawn._

_It’s a place where the sun can’t reach, where life does not thrive. The ground crunches below me as I walk, gravelly stones breaking down undoubtedly due to the harsh rain and snow it often host. I try to drown it all out as I approach the small hut nestled into the back of the crevice. Inside, it glows orange; it’s the only sign of life around. Even the wood of the hut is old and rotting, the house rickety, like it’s been here for thousands of years._

_Perhaps it has._

This is a memory, I realise. And yet…

_And yet I keep walking, walking towards her lair with intent, well aware of just what awaits me beyond the threshold of that old, crumbling, wooden door…_

_The door that swings open to reveal the very person I’m here to see._

_The very person who made me a promise; a promise which had seemed impossible to fulfil, and yet here I am._

_The witch is beautiful, it’s true. White hair cropped short, brilliant blue eyes, sharp, cold features that any member of the Winter Court would envy... she radiates wisdom and age, even despite her youth. I wonder just how old she really is. But it’s her teeth that unsettle me so: they glint silver in the dim firelight spilling out of the doorway. It illuminates the path ahead of me like the sun rising before the dawn, but this glow does not inspire a warm feeling in the same way that the dawn does._

_This witch is nothing like anything I’ve ever seen before, something out of this world—but no. I must be imagining it. And anyway, this witch’s teeth have nothing to do with the reason why I’m here._

_“Dawn Lord,” she smirks, her voice seductive in a way that might make any other man succumb to her whims in a second flat, “you have come.”_

_“You know what I want,” I say, a question which doesn’t sound like one at all._

_The witch nods, a bobbing motion that unsettles me. Despite her youth there is a slight limp to her step, a slight crouch to her walk. She steps aside and holds the door open with her arm, a movement that indicates that I should cross into her territory._

_“Life,” she answers, her voice nothing more than a hiss._

_How can life be born in a place so desolate?_

_The thought doesn’t stop me from moving forward._

_The scene shifts and I am inside, inside, overwhelmed with the warmth of the place; fires burn at every corner like the inside of a furnace, prompting sweat to gather at my brow and coat my hair; her hut is filled with junk, shelves upon shelves of jars, bottles, boxes, books, desks littered with the same sort of stuff—_

_In the middle of the room lies a cauldron. A big, black thing, something bubbling inside…_

_“Welcome,” the witch purrs, “to the beginning.”_

_And as she turns to look at me with a wicked grin, the door snapping shut behind her, a small, hidden part of me wonders if it’s the beginning of the end._

I wake in the middle of the night with a gasp.

A nightmare. I could call it that. Certainly, descending into that witch’s hut had been a nightmare; the snick of the door as it closed behind her had been one, too. But what had come of it…

I clench my eyes shut. No, what had come of it had been a blessing.

 _A blessing for you,_ a voice growls at me. Tamlin. _But a blessing for her?_

I roll over onto my side. Auralis sleeps peacefully beside me, his wings sprawled out lazily across our bodies as he lies on his front, gently snoring away. But it's the witch that hisses at me next, her voice grating against my skin. Even now, the memory of it sends a shudder down my back, even despite how tempting the lull of her words had been. I know there was a beast waiting under that skin, lingering between the sharp, jagged points of her teeth... 

_She has faced such hardship, all because of you—_

_The face of the one you love. The wings. The eyes. The love._

_That was what you asked me._

_What you wanted._

_You didn’t say whether or not you wanted her to go through the same hardships, too._

I trace the scars on Auralis' body as I try to lull myself back to sleep, willing the voice out of my head as best as I can.

 _Your fault,_ it hisses, my eyes clenching shut. _Your fault._


	20. Aurora

“You’re looking particularly glum today, Aurora,” father says softly. I shift my food around on my plate sadly as he tilts his head and asks, “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head slightly, my dull gaze drawn to the columns lining the walls and the rolling hills beyond. Freedom—freedom, so far away. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can imagine that those rolling hills are of the Spring Court… but no. The light hits differently here, casts a warm glow over everything, and the Spring Court is bright, full with the light of day.

“Dove,” Auralis says softly, his hand slipping over my own, “what’s the matter?”

I lower my gaze to my plate, but I don’t move Auralis’ hand from mine. I’ve come to love him, I realise, over the past few days. I love him like I love my own father. That look in his eye from our adventure into town yesterday lasts with me even now; perhaps it’s part of the reason I feel so glum. But I know that there’s something deeper which bothers me, something that I don’t quite understand and _do,_ somehow, all at the same time… 

“I don’t think it’s important,” I whisper.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father frown and lean forward. “If something is troubling you, then it is indeed important.”

I press my lips together, willing myself to have the courage to talk. “I just…” 

_I’m suffocating in this place. I’m lonely—so incredibly lonely. Tamlin had made me feel safe and warm and loved, like I had someone to curl up to. Lucien had made me smile, too. He’d made me feel happy. I want… I want friends, girl friends that I can giggle and gossip with and joke with, to tell everything about my love life to. Cora and Aidos… it’s not the same. It’s filled with reprimands—Aidos hasn’t been the same way with me ever since the Spring Court—I have no one here—_

My heart breaks again and again in my chest. Every thought, every wish, everything I miss… 

I can’t talk about it. I can’t make the words come from my mouth, no matter how hard I try.

I shake my head again and stand. “I just don’t feel like eating, papa.”

Thesan is quiet as he observes me, as if waiting for me to talk—to finally spill what’s wrong. Auralis, too, watches me, but I have the feeling he simply doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t seen me like this before; he’s seen me teetering over the edge, yes, but never this empty. This… sullen.

I leave the room with my shoulders slumped and my wings slack behind me, and like a routine nightmare, I seal myself in my rooms. I curl up on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest in an attempt to find some sort of comfort, and it’s my own warmth and the soft material of my dress that finally lulls me into a deep, deep sleep. 

Minutes or hours or days might pass, but I wouldn’t know. And I’m glad of it. I dream of lush fields and meadows filled with flowers; I dream of the gentle _whoosh_ of the sea against the walls of a seaside palace amidst the full bloom of Spring. I dream of digging gardens, sowing the seeds of the future, laughing and joking with a red-haired friend… 

“Pssst.”

My eyes flutter open, then I close them again. No, whatever it is, it can wait. I want to go back to my dreams.

“Aurora. Please. Wake up.”

I roll over onto my side, my eyes remaining shut. “Go away,” I mumble, raising a hand that’s heavy with sleep in the direction of the random voice. Dismissive.

“Cauldron boil me, you sleep just as heavily as Tamlin.”

I blink, opening my eyes all of a sudden, and then—

“Lucien?!”

He tries to grin, but it mostly displays on his face in the form of a grimace. “Hello,” he greets me with an awkward nod, mostly because he’s trying desperately to keep something in his arms from clawing its way out of the bag it’s sealed inside—and up his chest. “Please don’t beat me for sneaking into your rooms. I’m already in enough trouble as is. I promise I’m not a pervert—Tamlin sent me.”

I blink again, this time to get rid of the sleep in my eyes. I can’t help but stay silent as I take him in, dumbstruck; his red hair, that metallic eye, and those clothes that… certainly don’t seem reminiscent of the Spring Court, but rather some strange in-between that doesn’t really scream any court at all. Like some forgotten place sealed off to the world, hidden from the dangers that might lurk outside of its walls…

“How did you—how in the _Heavens_ did you get in here?”

He grimaces as claws dig into his shoulder, pulling the thing scratching at him as far away as possible. “I called in a favour with Nuan.”

Nuan, the palace’s newest inventor. She’d warned me against Tamlin once. I’d assumed it was because of what she had seen at the High Lords meeting—or what I assumed she’d seen—but… was it because she’s friends with Lucien? Had Lucien spoken to Nuan of what had happened between himself and Tamlin?

“This,” he continues, letting the thing fall onto the bed, “is supposed to be a gift from your dear lover, but it seems to hate me. It has a terrible temper. I suppose it’s rather fitting that it’s intended to remind you of him.”

I don’t even have time to consider the fact that Lucien called Tamlin my _dear lover._ Instead, I quickly wave a hand and seal the balcony doors shut with my magic, not wanting the poor thing—whatever is inside—to throw itself off the half-walls that line it. 

Lucien eyes me strangely as he sniffs, his eyes widening a second later, and then… 

“Aren’t you, ah, going to open—open the bag?”

“I’m a bit scared to, if I’m honest,” I admit, shuffling backwards somewhat as the thing hisses and scratches at the bag it’s kept in.

Lucien mutters something under his breath, and the only word I can understand is _Cauldron,_ which essentially means I know exactly what the rest of his words really are. He reaches for the bag and hisses when he gets scratched again. I can see the little claw marks on his hands from where the thing’s been getting at him again and again, and he moves in quicker this time, tugs on a string, and…

I see pointed ears first. Then orange fur mixed with black, and brown, and…

Green eyes. Round, green eyes, the middle ringed with gold.

I blink, and then—“Tamlin?” I gasp.

What I do _not_ expect is for Lucien to roar with laughter.

“Oh, you shut it!” I hiss, throwing a pillow at him. “Do you _want_ to get escorted out of my rooms by the guards you _undoubtedly_ snuck past to get in?”

His laughter quietens to a breathy chuckle, amusement shining in his eyes as he perches at the end of my bed—bravely close to the cat, actually. 

“You really think,” Lucien still laughs, “that Tamlin’s beast form looks like _that?_ ”

Indeed, the cat has stopped hissing now, merely sniffing the air around us as it glances about the room. It’s beautiful: not the type of cat I would buy if I was looking for a pet, but still, it’s gorgeous. Its coat seems to be the perfect mix of long and short hair, and its nose, a small, black dot on its pretty feline face, vaguely makes up the shape of a heart. Its fur fades off into grey at the very tip of its tail, a beautiful assortment of colours that make me wonder what sort of cat, exactly, it is.

“Well,” I admit, reaching a hand out tentatively, “it _is_ rather pretty.”

“ _She_ ,” Lucien informs me, his gaze on my outstretched fingers, “scratched me endlessly on the way here. I think pretty is the wrong word. And you can _bet_ I’ll be letting Tamlin know that you thought that little thing was him first of all. Oh, how humbled he’ll be—”

I hit him in the arm with my other hand. He mockingly rubs it, rolling his eyes, and the cat pauses at the sudden movement, but then… then she inches closer, gives a sniff, and to my surprise, she rubs her head against my hand lovingly.

My heart melts in my chest.

“Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” I coo at her, my fingers scratching at the back of her head. Her purrs fill the room instantly and she dips her head in order to let me get a better angle—a firmer scratch. “Don’t you listen to Lucien. He’s just upset that he doesn’t have one of you.”

Lucien folds his arms. “Yes, that’s _exactly_ the reason why I don’t like the thing. It’s certainly not the scratches I’m now covered in.”

“Cats can sense things just as we can, you know. It must sense that something is off about you.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“Amongst other things.”

Lucien whistles. “Aurora Morningsworn, you _do_ have some balls. I can see why you’re Tamlin’s ma—”

He shuts up, his face paling just a little. I look up at him, frowning in confusion, but then the cat licks me and I giggle, the first smile on my face in days— 

Lucien swallows. “Good. Tamlin said that if you smiled, that would be all he needed to know.”

I look up at him, scooping the cat closer to me, and she doesn’t object. Her purrs increase in volume. “He—he said that?”

“Amongst other things,” Lucien says, mimicking my earlier words. My lips tilt upwards in a small smile.

“Is he… alright?”

Lucien lowers his gaze. “If you consider broken windows and cracks in stone alright.”

Now, it’s my turn to pale. “What?”

Lucien shakes his head and makes himself stand. “Forget I said that. I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“No, Lucien, if he’s not alright—”

“You can’t do anything from here, Aurora. It does you no good to worry about him.”

“He worries for me,” I argue back, “so it’s only right that I worry about him, too.”

“The both of you worrying about one another…” He shakes his head, brushing his red locks out of his face. “For this pretty palace’s sake, I hope your form of worry isn’t as deadly as Tamlin’s.”

Tears threaten to well in my eyes. “He’s not alright, then.”

Lucien shakes his head, pausing for a while before he says, “He’s just…” He sucks in a breath. “Look, I’m not an expert on what’s going on in his head right now. I’ve been away for some time, and although I’ve known him for years, it feels like I’ve been gone for just as long. But I know he had scars from—from under there,” Lucien says somewhat warily, “and he’s… he’s scared. Being away from you. He knows it’s irrational to worry, that you’re safe in your own home, but he worries nonetheless.”

I look down at the cat in my arms, purring away, so oblivious to the conversation going on around her. I hadn’t even realised that I’d begun stroking her automatically, but the feeling of her soft— _incredibly_ soft, actually—fur under my fingers soothes me in a way I don’t quite understand.

Tamlin gifted her to me to remind me of him, and already, I feel more at ease in my own home. If I could give him something of mine—something which might make him feel the same way, something he could cling to… 

“Wait there a minute,” I tell Lucien.

I stand from my bed, leaving the cat behind, and I push open the double doors which lead to my rooms’ living space as my eyes scan my surroundings for something important enough to radiate me, me, _me._ First, I consider giving him my ivory dagger; then I think against it, wondering if his mind might first go to all the times I’ve had to use it in defence, all the times I’ve been in danger and he hasn’t been there. No—that won’t do.

I hear Lucien’s faint footsteps behind me, and I’m not at all surprised that he hasn’t listened, that he’s instead decided to follow. 

Lucien picks something off a tall dresser, the place where I keep all the old clothes I’ve grown out of but want to keep for memory’s sake; some things in there I want to store purely for the fact that they cause me too much harm to think about. I’m still scanning the room for something sentimental enough to give him when I hear Lucien chuckle from that dresser again, and I’m only half paying attention as he speaks.

“You have… a lot of stuffed bears, Aurora,” Lucien teases. “Don’t you want to get rid of them all?”

I whir around to face him, and—

I gasp. “Yes!”

Lucien’s brows rise. “Then why keep them all here to collect dust? I’m sure there are some other younglings who would be—”

“No, silly,” I interrupt him, pacing towards him. I nab the stuffed bear from him, its pale coat still soft after all these years… “This one. Give it to Tamlin.”

“What?”

“Give it to Tamlin. As a gift. In exchange for the cat.”

Lucien blinks at me. “You want me to give the High Lord of Spring a youngling’s toy?”

I narrow my eyes at him, my nose scrunching up in annoyance. “Yes, Lucien, I want you to give him my bear.”

Another blink, and then—he raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, shaking his head. A hand extends in my direction and I pass the bear back to him. “Anything you want me to say?”

I cock my head. “From emissary to messenger?”

Lucien shakes his head. “We don’t talk about it. It’s all rather up in the air at the moment.”

Slowly, I nod. “But… you want to return to the Spring Court eventually, right?”

Lucien is quiet for a moment, his gaze lowering, and then… “I don’t know.”

I pause. Tension. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up; maybe it’s a subject for another day. 

“I understand,” I say quietly. “Things are different now. I don’t really know what happened; nobody really tells me anything, not the details, but—”

“Thank you, Aurora,” Lucien interrupts, and I get the hint. He really doesn’t want to talk about it. “Understanding means a lot.”

I smile at him, and he smiles back.

“Again: anything you want me to say to him?”

I press my lips together, averting my gaze in thought. I step backwards, pacing just a little, and my eyes settle on the cat again. She’s begun exploring my living space now, her little eyes looking over the sofas, the fireplace, the bookshelves, the little armchair and table beside one of them that I use for reading… 

“Tell him thank you,” I murmur quietly. “Tell him I appreciate—I appreciate all he’s done for me, all he continues to do and will do, and… and tell him that I’m alright. Even though it… this place makes me feel terrible sometimes, I’m… well, _now_ I’m alright. Yes. Tell him that. His gift has lifted my spirits, and everything feels right again.”

It does. Almost. Sort of. I don’t feel so empty, certainly.

Lucien nods somewhat. “I’ll try to cut out the rambling.”

I flash him an amused smile, a glare accompanying it.

“Before I go—and before I get caught,” he says, ambling towards me, and I don’t step away from him, “Tamlin really, really cares about you, Aurora. More than he’s cared about anybody since…” Lucien’s brows furrow and he shakes his head. “Make sure you know what you’re getting into, is what I mean. Don’t do anything you’re not ready for. I don’t think he can take another heartbrea—”

Lucien’s head snaps in the direction of a noise, a voice, not too far away. 

“Aurora? Who’s in there with you?” It’s Cora—her voice from the entrance to my bedchamber. She does not sound pleased.

And when I look back at where Lucien was last, he’s gone—the bear with him, too. 


	21. Tamlin

I’m staring out at the ocean when I hear somebody approaching from behind, and I know from the sound of his feet that it’s Lucien, my old friend. His boots crunch on the sand as he makes his way towards me, and the way the waves lap at my bare feet as the tide makes its way crashing in is the only thing that really grounds me to the spot, reminds me that I’m here, not back under there— 

“She loved the cat,” Lucien says, pacing towards me, “although I can’t say that the damn thing liked me.”

I turn to look at him, eyeing the scars that are already beginning to heal. “That says something about you, you know.”

Lucien comes to a stop beside me. “She said the same thing.”

A small smile tugs at my lips, and then I see the bear in his arms. “What is _that?”_

Lucien looks down at it. Its white fur is soft and fluffy, its black eyes partially covered by the amount of fur around it. “It’s Aurora’s. She wanted to give it to you.”

My lips part in bemusement. No matter how hard I try, I can’t draw my eyes away from the thing. Of course—of course she’d want to give something back to me. I hadn’t even considered it, and yet now I realise I’d been foolish not to expect something back. Aurora Morningsworn—always giving more than she needs to. Isn’t that how our relationship, our friendship, started? 

“That sounds like her,” I respond. She hadn’t shied away from me when we first met; giving me this bear is no different.

Lucien passes it to me almost warily, and I accept it. I lower my hands to the side as I move to stare back out at the ocean again, but my grip on the bear is still firm. I can’t drop it. I won’t drop it. Not when… not when, as ridiculous as this is, it’s the only thing tying me to her right now. Despite the pinks and blues and purples lighting up the descent of the sun, however, it does not light up my mood—not when Aurora is so far away. Not when I can’t be there to keep her safe.

“She’s alright, you know,” Lucien tells me softly. He turns to look in the same direction: at the sun getting lower and lower over the ocean, the clouds shifting into rainbow of colours. “She… there was light in her eyes when I brought her the cat. I think she found some amusement in how much it hates me, too.”

I pause for a moment, relieved that she at least found a semblance of happiness in my gift. Gently, I ask, “Did she name it?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucien shake his head. “Not while I was there.”

“I’ll ask when I write to her.”

“Alright.”

Silence passes between us longer this time, the two of us merely watching the sunset as time moves on around us. I suck in a breath, wondering whether I should perhaps ask if Aurora mentioned anything about my discussion with Thesan, but I know that if she did, he'd mention it. I doubt she'd be able to contain her excitement in her letters to me, regardless. 

But as the silence lingers, lingers even more, there's something unsaid that lingers between, too. We could part like this… or I could say what has been needing to be said ever since we reunited. Something which has been needing to be said for a while now.

“Lucien, I…” I pause, frowning. “I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not something I’ve said to him often. As my emissary, it’s been in his duty to help me; as his High Lord, it’s not something I need to say often. But this… all he’s done for me now… yes, it has been in an effort to rekindle our friendship, but I’m not entirely sure what I would have done without Lucien grounding me these past few days. Without Aurora… without her there to heal, to support, Lucien has been all I have.

If I had gone all the way back into that pit of despair…

I would not have come out again.

Lucien pauses for a moment, and then—”Thank you.” 

More silence. And yet even still, it’s not awkward: Lucien’s shoulders seem to relax, and as I lower my gaze to the bear once more, I let loose a breath that feels like it’s been built up over hundreds of years.

“Oh,” Lucien says, “I almost forgot.”

I glance away from the bear briefly and instead to him. “Yes?”

“She thought you were the cat.”

“I—” I blink, turning to face him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Slowly, my brows rise, and then… I laugh. Even if my chest does feel hollow in Aurora’s absence, even if nothing feels right when she’s gone…

It’s a little easier to laugh with Lucien here.

I raise the bear to eye level so I can look at it properly, my long fingers wrapping around it in its entirety. I can imagine Aurora sleeping with this thing—sleeping with it to reassure her, especially in the months after… there. I grimace at the thought, lowering it, wondering if I’ll be able to focus on all the times she’s looked to this bear in happiness rather than a desperate attempt to find comfort. It’s such an innocent gesture to give me the bear, full of love and kindness and innocence… 

_At the very least,_ I think, bringing it closer to my face, it still smells like her. Like vanilla; like chocolate. Sweet, tempting, but with a vague whiff of rosewater in there, too.

“A bear,” I murmur, lowering it once more. “She gave me a bear.”

“That one seemed particularly special,” Lucien quips.

And all of a sudden, without elaborating, without explaining the sudden change in topic, I quietly ask, “Does it feel this way to you? Like you’re being torn apart?”

Beside me, Lucien knows what I mean without me even having to explain.

He nods.

Before I can even think about it, before I can stop myself, I pull my friend into a strong embrace. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing affectionate, just—understanding. It’s a soldier’s embrace, one I haven’t really used since my times spent fighting in my father’s war bands, but I know that now the time calls for it. I just have to tell Lucien somehow, _somehow,_ that I understand, that I’m sorry, that he doesn’t deserve this, that he deserves to be happy even through all that has happened between us—and that words just won’t cut it.

Call it the mating bond making me soft. Call it whatever you want. I haven’t felt like myself in a long time, and lately, all I have to go off is what feels right and what feels wrong.

This feels right, if not a bit unfamiliar.

Lucien responds to the embrace slowly at first, unsure, and then—tighter. 

“Missed you, Tam,” Lucien whispers, the weight of emotion heavy on his tongue. He hides his face in my shoulder and I hold him tighter, tighter—tighter, as if what we have is irreplaceable. And it is.

“Missed you too, old friend,” I respond, my throat tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you liked about this chapter! I wasn't feeling super confident with this one, but I chose to keep it in regardless. I hope you enjoyed it <3


	22. Thesan

_The witch extends a hand._

_“Power from power,” she hisses. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Power—power with a lover’s face.”_

_She speaks in riddles, and yet… and yet I know what she means. I had known then and I know now, even as this dream plays on, even as the witch haunts my sleep years later._

_I reach into my chest, pull on that small part of me, extend the glowing seedling to her—_

_She swallows it whole._

_“Wings,” I manage to choke out, forcing myself to look away. What did I just do? “Give her wings.”_

_The witch’s eyes narrow on me. “Are you sure?”_

_“Yes.”_

_The witch giggles. Is that her throat glowing, bobbing, or is it just me? It’s the heat in here—it has to be the heat. “Wings of sorrow. Wings of death. Wings of ruin, wings of death—”_

_I have to keep my voice from shaking as I respond, “You make no sense.”_

_“It will make sense,” the witch promises, her tone all of a sudden serious, no sign of that lyrical tone lingering. “One day.”_

_She wastes no time in extending another hand, and I know what she wants next._

_Auralis’ hair—the hair that he had cut from his head himself, the hair that had sealed him as part of this deal. Golden hair, gently curled, a thick tendril of it._

_I drop it into her hand._

_She swallows that whole, too._

_“A year,” she says, her throat raspy. “It will take a year.”_

_“I know how long it takes.” And before she can respond—”How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain? That you’ll call when it’s time?”_

_“I have no use for what you seek. But refuse to pay me,” she hisses, “and I will have a feast indeed. I’ll snap little legs, bones—”_

_The flash of light that burns through the house isn’t from the fire. It’s from me. Rage—it’s rare that I get this angry, this defensive. It’s even rarer for that rage to slip from my body._

_“Don’t you dare,” I snarl._

_“It is the consequence. The consequence of not paying.”_

_I shake my head, making to leave the hut, and the witch doesn’t stop me as I reach the door. I swing it open and cool air surrounds me. I’m grateful for the sudden change in temperature—grateful for the relief from my hair damn with sweat, clinging to my forehead, from the moisture that lines the crevices of my clothes—_

_But…_

_Wait._

_I turn to look back slowly. The witch is already getting to work, rummaging through the cupboards._

_“What…” My throat is tight. “What will it be?”_

_A pause. “What do you want it to be?”_

_I don’t need to think, don’t even need to consider, before—“A girl.”_

_The witch turns to me and nods._

_And with six simple words, the Dawn Court’s fate is sealed._

_“Then a girl she shall be.”_

***

Another memory, another nightmare.

“We have to let her go,” I murmur breathily, trying to get a hold of the rapid rate in which my breaths leave my lips. “We have to let her go.”

His voice still heavy with sleep, Auralis mumbles, shifting, “Thesan?”

“Tamlin,” I say, my voice quiet but—but urgent, as if what I have to say really _does_ need to be said in the middle of the night. 

Auralis lies on his side, barely awake as he keeps his eyes trained on me, but I can see him trying to blink away sleep in order to listen to me. So loyal—so loving, so caring. He pushes himself up so that his hand props up his jaw, his elbow balancing his weight against the plush mattress we sleep on.

“Why?”

“She’s miserable, Aura.”

“Yes, but—”

“No. No buts. I brought her into the world. I have to—I have to do what I can to ensure she’s happy.”

There’s a brief pause before Auralis quietly says, “You almost sound guilty.” 

“Perhaps I am.”

“For bringing our daughter into the world?”

“For bringing our daughter into the world despite the looming threat, despite the warnings the witch gave me, for deciding to create her out of spite—”

Auralis’ eyes close briefly before his hand finds my jaw; his fingers caress the brown skin there. “Thesan,” Auralis says sternly, “nobody would blame you for reacting the way you did. They were pressuring you for heirs, even when—even when they _knew_ of us, that you didn’t—that you don’t…”

That I’m in no way interested in women. For Auralis, it’s no different.

Quieter now, Auralis says, “I would’ve done it the same way as you, too.”

“But you didn’t,” I respond, my voice soft. “I did it. I was the one who went there. Went to see the witch.”

“I had a part in it,” Auralis says, his fingers still reassuring against my skin. “I’m to blame as much as you. I'm a part of her just as much as you. If you blame yourself, you blame me, too.”

I avert my gaze, staring up at the ornate ceiling above our bed once more. I could easily insist that it was my idea, that I convinced Auralis that it would be a miracle, but…

But I’m tired. But I don’t have the energy. It’s another thing to argue about, another thing concerning Aurora—

I say, “I’m going to tell Tamlin they can meet in the morning.”

“So soon?”

“For Aurora, it’s _late_.”

Auralis sighs, rolling over onto his stomach once more.

“I wish we could just tell her the truth,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by the pillow.

I clench my eyes shut. I cannot imagine how it feels to be Auralis, to watch Aurora grow up from a distance… But it had been necessary at the time. It had been necessary to keep the origin of Aurora’s birth a secret and also to keep mine and Auralis’ _relationship_ a secret. If Amarantha had known…

I’d seen what she did to my daughter to keep me on a leash. I could not let that happen to Auralis, either. And who is to say that she wouldn’t have found a way to manipulate what undoubtedly lurks inside of Aurora, that hidden part of her I fear will one day emerge in flames?

“Goodnight, Auralis,” I murmur quietly. The end of the conversation.

As Auralis drifts off to sleep again, he doesn’t bother saying goodnight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you guys think is going on here? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	23. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sauce in this chapter. You've been warned. If it makes you super uncomfortable, don't read beyond the stars at the bottom. <3

When father summons me to his study, I'm worried that I've done something wrong.

My heart thuds in my chest as I make my way to his quarters, quarters which aren't too far away from mine but today feel like a lifetime away. I can barely feel my feet as I make my way down the corridors, the dusty-rose halls too lonely and far too crowded all at once. Or perhaps that's just me... because although Tamlin's present is a relief, especially in the way she purrs and comes running when I call, my loneliness does linger just a little. 

_Tamlin_ —I miss him so, even still. The bond between us is unexplainable.

Marguerite, the name I gave to the cat, is a joy; her little claws pad along the floor of my rooms when she comes running, and often, she's either running for food or to clamber under the covers of my bed, purring away in the cover of warmth. Whenever anyone asks where she came from, I simply say that it's none of their business. And that's that.

I think they know the truth, though, and I delight in it. 

But now... now, although I should be relieved that my father has pulled me from lessons which I can barely focus on, can barely learn in, I'm terrified that he's about to scold me for that very reason. My progress has halted, my tutor said that much. Papa has never yelled at me before, has only ever been encouraging, and yet…

And yet as I push open the doors to my father’s study, the pink of my skirts swishing against the sparkling floors, there is no hesitation as I ask, “Father, have I done something wrong?”

Thesan looks up at me from where he scrawls at papers on his desk, his brows furrowed with concern. His hand stops and his quill is lowered as he responds, "Aurora, no, why in the Mother's name would you think that?”

I fiddle with my fingers. “It tends to be an automatic thought.”

Because whenever Amarantha had called for me, whenever she had deemed my presence vital, it had either been because she’d grown bored with me—and she’d found something that I’d apparently done wrong in order to entertain herself—or… or she wanted information from me.

Information she would use the Night Lord to get from me. Every time. I can still feel those claws and his hold on my mind, too close, too deadly, too dark… 

Too proud.

Father is standing a moment later, gesturing for me to take a seat opposite his desk. “No, sweetheart. I have good news.”

I frown, but I take a seat regardless. “Good news?”

Thesan nods. “Tamlin came to visit.”

I blink, my eyes widening, and then—”He’s here?” I squeak.

Thesan, to my disappointment, shakes his head. “No. He was, but—it wasn’t to see you. It was to discuss emissary business with me; to request that he might take you to his lands once more.”

Request… that doesn’t sound a lot like Tamlin. And yet I believe it. I believe he would fight for me, believe that he would want to do things the right way, believe that he would do what he could to see me happy. I believe, too, that there’s a part of him that finds it easier to be happy around me—to be happier with me around. 

Quietly, nervously, I respond, “And what did you say?”

Before my father can respond, the doors that I had entered through moments ago swing open. Auralis enters, the same glinting armour as usual, but there’s this look on his face—a frown. Displeasure. It seems to be permanently marked there these days. 

“We’re ready to go,” Auralis tells my father, glancing between the two of us nonchalantly. This isn’t like him—it’s not like him at all. He’d flash me a smile. But there’s tension in his shoulders now, tension that wasn’t there days before, and I want desperately to know what’s wrong.

I look back at Thesan somewhat hurriedly, wariness wafting from me in waves. “Father?”

Father responds, “You’re going on a trip with Auralis.”

Dread fills my stomach. _No. No, no, no._ They’re sending me away, aren’t they? They’ve grown tired of me; they’ve grown tired of my dalliances with Tamlin, my insubordination, my disobedience—father has decided that I’m not good enough, that grounding me isn’t good enough—they’re sending me somewhat far, far away, somewhere cold, somewhere dark, somewhere—somewhere so very much like down _there—_

I resist the urge to close my eyes, resist the urge for my fingers to wrap around the arm of the chair for support, even as my vision goes fuzzy and I feel the room swaying around me. _No. No, no, no_ —not when I’ve just gotten used to being back in the castle, not when wherever they’re sending me could be just like the place I spent fifty years trapped in— 

“Aurora?” Auralis draws me back, frowning, as he moves to lean against the lip of my father’s desk. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

I swallow down the sickness that pools in my stomach. “Yes. I—where are we…” _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Thesan smiles—smiles—and I think I might be sick, might throw up my breakfast right there.

Even still, I will myself to stand.

“Let’s go, then,” I say, and I’m out of that room in an instant.

Best to get this over with. If I’m going—if they’re sending me away—

The sight of Cora and Aidos outside my father’s study does not reassure me one bit. If it’s serious enough for my guards to come with me, for even Aidos to come, who has barely spoken to me since bringing me back from the Spring Court…

I don’t want to think of what that means.

“Aurora,” Cora greets me, grinning, but I do not replicate her expression no matter how much love I have for her.

Instead, I demand, my fists curling at my sides, “Where are we going?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Aidos instead responds, his arms folded as he glances over at me. And that’s that.

A second later, Auralis emerges from my father’s study. “Come on,” he says, offering me his arm, “we’re winnowing.”

Winnowing. Not even—not even a chance to prepare myself. No journey there, no chance to get my things in order. Suddenly, as much as I’m trying to be brave, it’s a great deal difficult. I want nothing more than to go back to my room, to hide under the covers, to surround myself in darkness and nothing but Margie’s calming, reassuring purrs.

I look up at him, my eyes wide with worry. “Auralis—”

“Trust me,” he says warmly, gently. I clench my eyes, my arm linking with his, and then— 

We winnow right into the Spring Court.

The breath that slips from my lips isn’t one I can control.

Bright, beautiful green grass; trees gently swaying in the wind; the distant sound of the shore as it crashes against the rocks; the sparkle of sunlight against the sea, only just visible over the slightly visible beyond the rolling grassy hills that fade into the beach far away; the palace, tall and pale and proud— 

And Tamlin. Tamlin, with his golden hair slightly tousled in the Spring wind, with his green eyes bright, with a smile slowly creeping onto his features at the sight of me—

I’m rushing towards him before I even realise what I’m doing, and an instant later, our bodies are flush against one another. 

I let out a choked noise, a noise that verges on a sob as my arms wrap around him, tears filling my eyes. This—this is better than anything I could have imagined, better than anywhere they could’ve been taking me. He says nothing as he holds me, clings to me tight, refuses to let go even as I clutch at the pink of his doublet and gasp for breath as I bask in the comfort of him, the strength of his form. His arms wrap around me and I’m home, I’m home, I’m home— 

“I missed you,” he whispers into my hair, nuzzling, inhaling my scent. And then he’s letting out a breath as he whispers against me, repeating it like a mantra: “Mother above… you’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.” 

He says it like he’s trying to convince himself of it, and I… 

I have never wanted to kiss him more.

“No,” I half sob, half laugh instead, my face still buried in the pink of his doublet, cherishing that rainy, earthen scent he just can’t shake, “I—I missed _you_ —” 

He tilts my head up and I let him, our eyes meeting, and I can see—I can see that brightness in his eyes again, the gold in his eyes bright and alive and burning, like the dawn as it rises again for a brand new day. Like the light has returned. Like Dawn has come to Spring. 

_I want him to kiss me,_ I realise, desperately and passionately. _I want his lips on my own, want his fingers in my hair, want his tongue sweeping against mine, want his fingernails digging into my hips._ Tamlin must want the same thing, too, because we’re lost in one another’s eyes, lost as he contemplates leaning in to steal me for himself, lost as he contemplates whether I’ll let him—

I will. I will. A thousand times over, I’d let him devour me—again and again.

Behind us, Auralis clears his throat. My fingers clench on Tamlin’s doublet, annoyed. I only briefly have the chance to admire how our clothes match; the same shade of champagne pink. _Did he wear this for me?_ Regardless, I look over at Auralis to find that he is watching us keenly, warily, as Aidos folds his arms beside him. Cora… with her brows raised, she seems to look at me as if saying, _really?_

 _Yes, really,_ I want to shoot back at her. Instead, I stick my tongue out in her direction, and she rolls her eyes and looks away—assesses the grand palace which we stand in front of, where the murmur of activity sounds from inside. That’s new—the palace had been empty the last time I visited. 

“While this reunion is very… sweet,” Auralis says, prompting a cough from Aidos beside him—which prompts a jab in the ribs from Cora, “we are here on business, not to flirt.”

The flush on my cheeks is relentless as I make to step back ever so slightly, but Tamlin doesn’t release his hold on me. _Mine,_ he might as well say, his fingers still on my arms—firm in his decision, but his touch on me gentle as I remain in his embrace. _Yours,_ I want to say back, again and and again and again, only I want to be writhing on top of him when I say it, want to be moaning it over and over again—

I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that it makes something stir between my legs.

Even so, I have to stop thinking like this. Especially in front of my friends and my father’s mate. I try to send away the blush that coats my cheeks but it won’t go, not when I look up at Tamlin again.

“Business?” I ask. And then I remember something that my father said—something about Tamlin visiting the Dawn Court. “Father said you visited. You didn’t come to see me?”

“I didn’t think it to be appropriate,” he smiles at me apologetically. “Not with how we left things.”

I understand, even if it does disappoint me. 

“Come,” Tamlin says, parting from me now, but his hands still interlock with mine. “I wish to show you something. Your Captain has already been shown it, so you need not fear what might await in the woods. I’ve prepared horses for the five of us.”

I glance at Auralis. When did he scout ahead? Why didn’t he tell me about this? Why did it have to be a surprise? Regardless, I don’t think on it for too long, not when Tamlin’s hands are warm in mine—not when our fingers don’t part from one another even when my arm links with his, my thumb brushing affectionately over the satin of his doublet as we make our way to the stables. 

Tamlin provides me with a white horse speckled with grey, a beautiful mare with the temperament of a cool Spring day herself—gentle, easy, just right. He helps me climb atop her even though I don’t really need the help, not when griffons themselves are about the same height, but I won’t complain—not when he’s touching my skin, and not when he’s leaving his scent on my body. I don’t ask where he got the horses from, but there are enough in the stable for all of us.

In no time, the five of us are mounted and heading off in the direction Tamlin leads us in. The woods surround us, thick, brown tree trunks with bright green leaves, towering above as we make our way down a path through the woods that looks freshly made. Wagon tracks line the path, beaten down enough for Tamlin and I to ride alongside one another, and only once we’ve been riding for a few minutes do I speak.

“The palace looks busier,” I comment, looking over to Tamlin as he rides alongside on a black stallion, its legs and core full of strength and power. “Did you find new staff?”

Indeed, I had spied new hedges being planted around the gardens, spacious enough to not feel closed in and yet close together enough for it to feel safe and guarded. There had been a stableboy, too, and the noises of a few other faeries nearby the stables. I wonder just how much has changed since I left. 

Tamlin nods, but it’s tense—it’s as if he doesn’t want to talk about it. I wonder how difficult it is to admit that all of his old staff abandoned him, but I can’t help but admire him for getting so much back up and running in my absence.

“A lot has changed since you last visited,” Tamlin says. “That’s why you’re here. I wanted to show you.”

I smile. “Is it going to be like the palace again?”

There’s a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth as he says, “A little. But more exciting.”

“What could be more exciting than a palace?”

Tamlin’s grin is small, but the amusement in his eyes makes up for it. “Just wait and see.”

We engage in more casual conversation as we ride, some of which Auralis and Cora join in on at times. Tamlin asked about the cat, his gift, and I tell him thank you, would tell him a thousand times over if I could, and when he asks her name I tell him that I named her Marguerite—Margie for short. But as much as we talk, Aidos doesn’t take part. He’s silent as we make our way to wherever Tamlin is leading us, and when I glance back at him he’s always either watching our surroundings or his gaze is trained sternly on the back of Tamlin’s head. I’m certainly glad that Aidos doesn’t have a look that could kill, because if he did, a fight would’ve started already.

It’s less than half an hour later when we come to a stop atop a hill which overlooks a sprawling town, many of its half-finished buildings sprawling out below us. I scan my surroundings—a delta river divides the town in two, feeding into the sea beyond, while plains upon plains of grassy fields lie ready and waiting to host crops in the Spring months. To the east, the treeline far off in the distance curves around to meet the part of the forest we just emerged from, and to the west, there’s even a glimpse of the sea when one glances in the other direction. _Are those docks being built?_ It’s a beautiful view, and not too far away from the palace indeed. 

“What is this place?” I ask, looking to him with curiosity in my eye.

“A new town,” he tells me, “and a new start at life. Not just for the people that will live here, but for me, too—a home ready and waiting for anybody willing to join my court.”

I look around once more, my eyes sweeping the buildings. Homes, a marketplace, little shops—all made with a pale sort of stone that reminds me of sunstone, the stone that so many of our homes and buildings are made from in the Dawn Court. I can even spy a well nearby a town square, a patch of green made for lounging, a temple with its spiralling pillars where a High Priestess might live… 

“Tamlin, this is wonderful,” I breathe, turning to look at him with a smile. There is wonderment in my eyes as I gaze upon him. “How many do you expect to live here?”

Tamlin shrugs. “I would quite like it to develop into a large town. I have always… well, the manor always felt somewhat stuffy. There were villages nearby, of course, but none bustling. I would like that for this place—although how many choose to live here is part of the reason I wished to bring you here today.”

I glance back at our surroundings, considering his words, and then— “You wish for me to advertise this place to Dawn’s people. To anyone who might want a start at a new life.”

Tamlin nods. “I’ve sent word to all other courts of the life that might await their people here, should they choose it. The houses will be finished in a matter of weeks—less, perhaps, with the rate of your court’s builders are working.”

I blink. “Dawn Court builders are here?”

Tamlin’s gaze returns to the town ahead as he responds, “And Day. For their involvement, I have extended an offer to whoever is financially able that they may move to my court and take up a house of their own, if they would rather that than be paid in gold.”

It’s such a great idea—the town, as well as the offer for housing. For anybody who wants to find some semblance of meaning in their life, what better than to move to a place that is new, a place where they can leave their mark? It’s a place that was untouched by Amarantha when she came—a place where no reminder of her may linger. If this place doesn’t attract visitors by the dozen, I’ll be mighty surprised. 

And I hadn’t even been the one to influence him to do it. 

“I’ll take one,” I tell him, looking across at him with a nod. “I’ll buy one of the houses, if you’ll let me.” I have my own money—money I’ve saved, since I rarely have anything to spend it on. Why should it not be on this, in a place that brings me so much joy?

Auralis’ sigh is biting as he says, “Aurora…”

“What?” I demand, my tone jagged as I look back at him. “There are no rules against the daughters of High Lords going to stay in other courts. In fact, it would only be fitting, since I’m emissary.”

Auralis shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _Mother above._

But Tamlin simply smiles across at me, although it’s somewhat apologetic. “As emissary, you would be welcome to stay in the palace. With me.”

I blink, my lips parting, and then—

“Why don’t you two just get married already?” Cora shoots at us, sarcastic.

The flush that coats my cheeks is furious, relentless, and for a moment I’m unable to focus on anything that goes on around us. My fingers tighten on the reins of the horse as I try to ignore Cora’s words, but as I feel Auralis’ patience reach nonexistent levels beside me, I know that’s not going to be easy.

“You,” Auralis points at her, anger radiating from him, “with me. Now.”

I don’t see the look on Cora’s face or what she does in response; I don’t dare look. All I know is that they’re dismounting from their hoses in an instant, and when I finally deem it safe to look, they’re disappearing back into the treeline that we only just emerged from. _I don’t want to hear whatever lecture Auralis is about to give her—especially not because it’s likely about to be the unleashing of a build up of emotions I still don’t entirely understand the cause of._

Aidos turns away, giving us our privacy, and I might laugh if not for how awkward it’s suddenly become. I turn back to look at Tamlin and release a breath, one that’s been longing to come out for a while now—one that’s been reserved for when we’re alone. Tamlin looks at me with such longing, like he’s devouring me with his gaze, and I won’t deny that the look in his eye does things to me, that it makes the space between my legs thud with longing, makes my insides turn to mush— 

“I…” Nothing. I can’t think of anything to say, anything beyond _I want you, I want you,_ nothing beyond what my body forces me to think, nothing beyond what I feel so badly, so deeply—

Tamlin, it seems, doesn’t seem like he wants to say anything. Like he’s capable of saying anything. Not when that look in his eye is so dark, so hungry, not when he looks like he wants to take me on the ground right in front of this town and mark me as his own… 

“Could I have a tour?” I manage to breathe.

Slowly, slowly, Tamlin’s gaze travels up my body, up every curve, every inch, every dip.

And when his gaze meets mine…

That look of hunger isn’t gone from his gaze.

“Of course,” he simply says. 

And as Aidos sends word to Auralis that we’re moving on, when he leaves Tamlin and I alone for those few split seconds and our gazes rake over each other’s bodies once more, when our gazes linger… 

I know I’ll be seeing him in my dreams tonight. 

And I know he’ll be seeing me, too.

***

He pulls me behind a small alleyway, or perhaps what might one day be one once the buildings around it are complete. Tamlin’s hands are gentle yet deliberate as he pulls me to him, paces forward so that my back is all of a sudden flat against the wall, and when our bodies are almost flush against one another, as I stare up into those green orbs flecked with gold, swathed in hunger, in longing… 

“Tamlin,” I breathe, the release of emotion not unlike his own—of longing, of passion, of that feeling between my legs put into words.

His lips are crashing down to meet mine in an instant.

Our kiss is hurried, passionate, a mixture of moans and breathless noises as his fingers grip at my hips, my thighs, digging in as he hoists one of my legs around his hips. I barely have time for my fingers to find his hair, tugging and intertwining, and he lets out a growl at the feeling, at the pressure, at the scent of our passion mingling together, the feeling of his name on my lips— 

And then his lips are trailing down, down, past my lips and to my jaw and then my neck as he ventures lower, lower, until his lips are at that sweet spot between my collarbones and my breasts, and I want all of him, I realise, all of him then and there, Mother damn whoever sees or hears, Mother damn my reputation at the end of it—

And this time, when I wake from my dream covered in sweat with a throbbing sensation between my legs that leaves the pace of my breath rapid, I’m not at all surprised.

And as my hand slides down to that place between my legs, I welcome it.


	24. Thesan

_I enter the witch’s cabin not entirely knowing what to expect._

_And yet it’s still the same. Crumbling. Dirty. Old and cluttered. But there’s a bedspace cleared now, a space not too far from the cauldron that still bubbles in the firepit in the center of the room—a bed in which the witch lays. Her eyes are half-open with the telltale signs of sleep as the door closes behind me, a little louder than usual in order to wake her._

_A blanket covers her stomach—a stomach which is heavy with the signs of a pregnancy only just passed. And in her arms…_

_A baby._

_My stomach flips. A winged baby, white wings like a dove, a head of thick golden curls—no sign of white hair like the witch’s own, all soft features and pointed ears—thick little fingers that clasp at her birth-giver’s clothes as she wriggles slightly in the witch’s hold—_

_My daughter._

My _daughter._

_“My payment,” the witch rasps._

_I draw my eyes away from the baby in her arms and inch forwards, my fingers clutching at the bag of jewels—emeralds, rubies, all the different types she had demanded. The witch looks ill, dreadfully sick, although I never_ have _seen anybody after childbirth before. Worry quickens my heart even despite how this witch unsettled me so; surely nobody should be left in a place this desolate, this crumbling, after such a feat?_

_I inquire, “Are you—”_

_“I will be fine.”_

_I press my lips together, deciding not to speak of it anymore. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t know the state of her wellbeing; that way, our business tonight ends here and now. I set the bag down on the bed and she swipes them away before, I assume, she thinks I can take them back again._

_I perch at the end of the bed as the witch stuffs the bag of jewels behind her, far away from my reach. I don’t pay any heed. Instead, my gaze is again drawn to the baby, the little bundle in her arms, the little bundle that mewls and wriggles, whose fingers clench and unclench as if looking for some sort of comfort, looking for love that this witch cannot provide—_

_And yet even so, she is quiet—perfectly content. The perfect baby._

_I extend a hand to her without being able to stop myself. The witch shifts the babe into my arms and when her tufts of golden curls brush against my arm, when her wings are slack and weak with newborn sleepiness, when her little brown eyes are looking up at me, me, me—_

_Everything else fades away._

_My daughter. My baby. My child._

_She blinks up at me, then squints, then closes her eyes as if it’s too much—too much to focus on such a new face, a new person. I can’t help but let out a huff of laughter, my thumb brushing against her cheek soothingly. She seems to like it._

_“She is strong,” the witch tells me. “Strong, like you.”_

_“That’s my power,” I murmur, my palm stroking her hair back from her face soothingly. Her eyes flutter closed once more; oh, she_ loves _that._

_“No,” the witch murmurs, a shake of her head following, “it is her will, and her alone. That is what makes her strong.”_

_I’m quiet, tucking away the witch’s words for another time. For now… for now, all that matters is the child in my arms, the child I’ll bring home to the nursery readily awaiting her arrival; to my lover, to her father, to the life that awaits the three of us together—_

_“And a name for the child?” The witch asks curiously. A change of subject. Good._

_I don’t need to think about it. Not now, at least. It came to me a while ago, months ago, when this witch likely would’ve only been in the beginnings of her pregnancy. Auralis—Aurora, after the dawn…_

_The two people I love the most. The two people I would do anything for._

_“Aurora,” I whisper, gazing into those beautiful brown eyes—the eyes that not only remind me of my lover but are his, his eyes, a beautiful girl all in the image of the male that I love. “Her name will be Aurora.”_

***

“Never ask me to do that again,” Auralis demands, a sigh slipping from his lips as he unclips the buckles on his armour, letting his sword fall to the floor beside him. “Never, Thesan. They are insufferable.”

I raise my brows, a cup of tea in my hand as I pace slowly towards my lover. “How so?”

Auralis lets out a huff of laughter that rings with annoyance. “Where do I start? How they act as if they’ve gone years without seeing one another? The glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking? And Mother above, the sexual tension—”

I blink. “Sexual _tension?_ ”

Auralis shakes his head, still unbuckling his armour. “You wouldn’t believe it, Thesan.”

It’s my turn to shake my head, now, falling into one of the plush sofas dotted about my living area. “I hardly do, my love.”

Auralis lets out a breath. “I don’t think it’ll do them any good to keep them apart, you know. If it’s—” He swallows. “If they want to be around one another, they’re going to be. Whether you know of it or not.”

I frown at him. “Earlier, you were rather displeased to be escorting Aurora to the Spring Court. What changed?”

Auralis sinks into the seat beside me, his body slack—he’s tired, I realise. I put my tea down, my hand moving to rub comforting circles at his shoulder as concern lines my features. 

“I don’t have the energy, Thesan,” he murmurs, his head suddenly finding his hands. He hides his face there, away from me, away from the light that filters in through the open balcony doors. “I don’t have the energy,” he repeats, his voice a mere whisper.

“Auralis?” I ask quietly, a request for elaboration. My hand still doesn’t leave his back.

“I can’t keep—keep pretending. It’s so hard. It’s like that piece of me in her calls to me; like I’m _supposed_ to be there to protect her, to guide her, and yet I—I—”

He takes a deep, slow breath, one I know is an attempt to stop the tears—to stop the emotion that begs to come out.

“Have to do it from a distance,” I finish for him, my voice a mere murmur.

The noise that slips from Auralis’ throat is confirmation enough.

I can’t keep doing this to him. I hadn’t realised it before—hadn’t realised how much it was eating away at him. But now… seeing him like this, seeing him so far from the male I know…

“Then we tell her,” I say quietly, softly, biting down all the fears that have been keeping me from doing so for so long. “We’ll tell her, and it will be up to her to decide how she takes it.”

Slowly, Auralis tears his hands away from his face. “You… you mean that?”

I nod.

He takes a deep breath, the tightness in his throat making his body shudder, but I know in the way that his shoulders relax that there’s relief in his form, a sort of peace that he hasn’t been able to muster up within himself these past few days.

I lean forward, capturing his lips with my own, and the kiss he returns with is strained, needy, a cry for comfort. Auralis’ scent is a welcome one, long since mixed with my own and yet still—home, home, home.

“Come to bed, my love,” I murmur against his lips, pressing another quick kiss there before I pull away for him. I stand, offering him my hand, and I forget all about my tea as I say, “Let me make it up to you.”

My fault. My fault. My fault.

I lead Auralis to bed, and after, as we lie in the aftermath of our lovemaking and my mate’s face is nestled into the crook of my neck, I hold him close and hold him tight as if all the misery and pain that he’s ever felt in his lifetime is my fault, my fault, my fault— 

“You did what you could, Thesan,” Auralis murmurs against my skin, a set of words that make my breath hitch in my throat. “I know you just want the best.”

And as much as I know he believes those words, I wish _I_ could believe them, too.


	25. Aurora

The preparations for the party go swimmingly, especially with Auralis' help.

It's a relief to see him in clothes other than armour, a sparkling crown of gold sat atop his head amongst his head of golden curls. His ruby-and-gold robes, much like my father's, swish about at his feet as he moves about with the grace of a well-trained Peregryn warrior. He gives orders to the servants as I watch him, kind yet firm as he points to where he wants certain decorations to go, friendly as he dictates which balconies should remain locked and which should remain open. I'm curled up in a bright yet tucked away alcove in the grand ballroom as I admire his charm, his kindness, and I'm glad to see that the dark circles under his eyes have disappeared.

I haven't asked him what was wrong yet. I haven't found the right occasion. And as more time goes on, I'm starting to think it's none of my business.

I have days—nights—like those sometimes too.

Cora, beside me, nudges me in the side. "For somebody who insisted on bringing a book, you're not doing very well for reading it."

I flush, rolling my eyes. "Leave me be, Cora. He just looks... very happy."

Cora relaxes into the plush seating of the alcove that we share, a sigh slipping from her lips. "That he does."

I glance across at her, wondering once more just what it was that Auralis said to her in those woods at the Spring Court. It's not like she's been any different: she's still sarcastic, still confident, still effortlessly beautiful, with her bronze skin and that dark hair that now falls down her back in a sleek waterfall. But she won't talk to me about it, deeming it unimportant.

"And you? Are you happy?" I ask, and then—"Is there anybody _making_ you happy, I mean?"

She just looks at me—stares. "Do I look like the type for relationships?"

"You certainly don't look like the type for one night stands."

Cora's brows rise. "I've had plenty of one night stands."

"Did you cry in the middle of them?" 

She gapes at me, awed and just slightly— _slightly_ —amused.

"Aurora Morningsworn, has getting some dick made you bold?"

It's my turn to gape at her now. "Cora!"

She snickers. "What? It's true."

I snap my book shut. "It's _not_ true. I haven't even kissed him."

"Yet."

I glower at her. "Comments like these are why you got in trouble with Auralis, if you recall."

She rolls her eyes, folding her arms. "I remember. But _you're_ not going to scold me for them, are you?"

I shake my head in exasperation, my gaze returning to my book. Regardless of my amused annoyance, I certainly won't—not when I value my friend's company so much.

Things seem to be returning to normal now—and certainly, that counts for my friendships, too. I feel more like myself. I visit Tamlin sometimes, although it's always with company... but there _had_ been that one time we had found ourselves alone in the living room when Aidos had been whisked away by a giggling, flirty servant, and we had ended up slowly dancing with one another despite the lack of music in the room. Tamlin's fingers had been gentle on my waist, my face resting in the crook of his shoulder and neck as I'd relaxed into his hold, as I'd closed my eyes. The sunlight was sparkling against the sea, filling the room with light, with hope, with affection—

School is easier to balance, too.

Having a social life is a bit more difficult than I imagined, but it's more than enjoyable when the person I'm filling my time with is Tamlin. And Lucien—oh, Lucien. I love his company more than anything, our time filled with laughter and giggles and jests, and an invitation to the party has long since been extended to him. He and Cora seem to get along well enough, too, which makes our endeavours more enjoyable. They even discovered that they're distantly related through Lucien's mother's side. Certainly, I feel more comfortable being around the two males with Cora than I do with Aidos—with Cora, it's relaxed. More like friends hanging out with one another than friends and a guard.

Aidos...

It's awkward with Aidos.

Neither Tamlin or Aidos choose to pretend to like one another. Sometimes, the look in Tamlin's eye makes me wonder if he'd love to rip his throat out. But it never goes too far. Never gets beyond a sarcastic comment or two. Never goes beyond the clenching of Tamlin's fists, the points of his claws showing at the tips of his fingers, the fire in his eyes with Aidos comes close.

I don't think I want to see the day it does get past it, though. Cora comes with me most days. It's just easier that way.

"Besides," Cora leans in, whispering in my direction, "if you did, I'd have to tell Auralis you're reading smut."

I gape at her, and then I whack her in the arm with my book. "Now that _is_ too bold of you, Cora Emberglade!"

She laughs—a beautiful, merry sound—and I can't help but let out a huff of laughter, too. She's right, of course, but neither of us need to admit that.

The rest of our day and the days beyond blend into a mesh of laughter, of friendships, even of Aidos' grumpiness, and even so it's all wonderful and beautiful and perfectly balanced, perfectly planned, perfectly prepared.

But when the day of the party comes, nothing goes as prepared.

My dress... it’s beautiful, yes, with its elegant, straight-across neckline, with the cape that extends from my shoulders and flows downwards, with the gold flowers that line the bottom as well as the top of it. But it's just so... plain. I want something more; something that represents who I am _now,_ the girl I feel like after falling for Tamlin, befriending Lucien, after feeling _right_ again—like myself. The dress doesn't cling to my curves in the way that I want, doesn't sparkle the way I want...

Outside of this dress, I feel... alive. Bold. Confident. All in ways I hadn't before.

"You don't like it?" One of Naxos' faeries asks as she looks up at me—Selene, who I have gotten to know quite well from her frequent visits to design my dress—from where she kneels at my feet. My displeasure must be written on my face, my lips pressed tightly together, the paleness in my cheeks… 

"It doesn't feel like me anymore," I respond slowly, quietly, weakly. "It's beautiful, Selene, so beautiful, but... it's not me."

It weighs on my heart in a way I don't quite understand.

"In what way?" Selene asks. She stands, turning to look at our mutual reflections in the mirror. “We can make adjustments. We still have hours until the party starts.”

"I want..." I flush, making a point not to look at her face in the mirror. Instead, I focus on what I want _my_ dress to look like—what I can see myself wearing in my head. Tight, sleek, glittering like the sea against the dawn and gold, gold, gold… "I want to look... desirable."

"Mistress," Selene says rather bemusedly, leaning back, "have you _seen_ your face?"

I swat her gently, rolling my eyes. "I mean my body. I want... Mother above, Selene, I want to look sexy."

Slowly, Selene's brows rise. "I see," she muses, the cogs of her mind turning. "And do you want to look sexy for anyone in particular?"

I give her a playful glare, one which likely confirms her suspicions. She hums, a small smile curving her plump lips upwards.

Selene murmurs to herself, "If I take away the top and replace it with some sort of sheer material, pull in the waist, pepper the rest with more gold..." She looks up at me then. "How does that sound?"

I loose a breath, nodding. “I have faith in you." 

I want this dress to hug my figure, to leave little to the imagination... while at the same time leaving more to be desired.

Mischievous. That's how I want it—that's how I feel.

Certainly, that day lying in the meadow with Tamlin had been mischievous: that day when Cora had vanished into the woods for a few moments and Tamlin’s fingers had drawn patterns on my ribs, then on my abdomen, and his gaze had flickered up to me as his fingers trailed down, down, down until he had my breath hitching in my throat—

And then Cora had emerged from the brush, and she hadn't failed to notice Tamlin's hand or how low it had been. How teasingly, tantalisingly low.

That had been the end of that.

I leave Selene to get to work once the servants arrive to fix my hair and put some powder and rouge on my face, and she’s happy working on her own. I give her my bedroom to work in, with my desk and the bed she can freely throw things over if she wishes, and it’s only once the servants are working to carefully curl my hair—neater, thicker waves than my natural curls—that I hear from her again. 

“Do you want the cape?” Selene calls. I’m able to tell from her tone alone that she’s hard at work.

I pause, thinking, and then—“No!” I call back. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope!” Selene responds confidently.

Next comes my makeup, my cheeks highlighted with a gold shimmer while my lips are made all the more seductive with a sandy pink. Speckles and flakes of gold are stuck to my face comfortably—the tops of my cheeks, the sides of my forehead, just above the center of my brows. And then my wings: the bottoms hand painted gold, all with care and kindness that means that I don’t feel as fearful as I thought I might when the idea to paint my wings had come to me. People touching my wings… it’s unfamiliar, not often welcome, but on this occasion—planted in front of my mirror, in full view, able to see every movement and every swipe of the brush—I feel safe, content, and…

Excited. 

And when the sun is just setting, when it’s almost time for the party to begin, when I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom and the dress itself is on… 

I have never felt more beautiful.

If all the torment I’ve ever gone through has been for anything, it’s been for me to see this.

The dress is gold, shimmery, and there isn’t a hint of white as the dress sparkles in the sunlight. Somehow, Selene has used the excess material from the cape to make the sides flowing, elegant like a ballgown, and yet there is part of the skirt that is cut out and perfectly sleek—figure hugging, sexy, almost scandalous. The neckline remains straight, just like the original dress, but the material above it is translucent, a shimmery sort of fabric that extends down my arms in sleeves just as sleek. And it has thumb loops—I _love_ thumb loops. But this dress, this beautiful thing that has been made for me, that _represents_ so much of me… 

I look heavenly. Celestial. And I’m not afraid to admit it, to love myself, because I haven’t done so this fully in a long time.

“Selene, this is…”

I don’t have the words, but the look in my eye…

It says enough.

“ _That’s_ a much better look than before,” Selene smiles.

I turn to her, breathless, and a hand flies to my heart as it clenches in my chest. Beautiful, I look beautiful, like the woman I feel. Not a girl, not anymore. A _woman._

“How can I repay you for this?” I gasp, willing myself not to cry. “This—it means so much. And you did it on such short notice. I—I can hardly understand _how._ ”

Selene shrugs. “Naxos employs the best of the best. And I _am_ the best.”

I grin, the warmth in my smile remaining. “Obviously. But I’m serious—anything, anything, and it’s yours.”

Selene smiles faintly, turning to put away some of the things she left on the bed—excess material, scissors, thread. “There’s nothing you can give me that I don’t already have, mistress. Naxos treats their staff well—they've given me a home and a purpose. They’re like the mother I lost. The mother I lost… before.”

I'm quiet for a moment, simply unable to understand such grief. I haven't ever lost anybody—I never knew my own mother. But I know how to comfort, know how to support, and so I clutch at her fingers with a loving smile. Selene’s own fingers are gentle and yet steady—the hand of a creator.

“If you ever need _anything,_ Selene—”

The doors to my bedroom swing gently open before I can finish—and in walk my father and Auralis, the both of them looking radiant as ever.

Selene bows her head in respect, stepping away. Auralis glances over her, ever the watchful guard, and then looks back at me—me, as I take in their splendour. They both wear formal attire of ruby and gold, purple shimmering in the latter material when they move or turn a certain way, and a sparkling golden crowns glitter atop father's head whilst a wreath of gold adorns Auralis' own. With father’s robes and Auralis’ formal jacket, the two of them look like the ruling couple they were fated—mated—to be, wise and beautiful and kind.

It’s father that steps forward first, a smile on his heavenly features as he takes me in: the gold of my wings, the perfection that is my dress, my hair which falls in neat waves down my shoulders...

Thesan extends his hands to me and I waste no time in taking them, a smile lining my features. There’s this look in his eye—pride.

"Aurora," father greets me, his eyes heavy with love—love, and something else I can't quite place. "It's time."

Auralis, a few steps away behind him, swallows. "You look..."

"Grown up," Thesan smiles—soft and warm and kind.

"Thank you," I force myself to breathe, to squeak, even despite the excitement welling up in my chest.

"How are you feeling?" Thesan asks, one brow rising.

"Excited," I say truthfully, and then—"Nervous."

Thesan chuckles. "If I'm truthful, I feel the same. But here—I have something for you."

Auralis steps forwards, and the thing in his hands takes my breath away. The crown itself glitters with splendor, with amethysts, all tastefully dotted about in a show of wealth, of power. Its spikes are a representation of the sun's rays much like my headband I so often wear, while the gems represent the colours of the sunset—purple that shimmers pink in some lights, a deeper purple that verges on red in others. In fact, the way the reflection in the amethysts move... I know that somehow it's enchanted, that there's some sort of magic within that makes the colours sway as they do.

"This tiara holds within it a fraction of the dawn itself," Thesan tells me warmly, as if reading my mind. "I want you to wear it—you, daughter of the dawn. Aurora. The very thing after which you were named."

I look up at him quickly, my eyes wide. “Father?”

Thesan nods. “My mother wore it. And so shall you.”

"Father, this is..." I force myself to take a breath, to stop tears welling from my eyes. "This means so much."

Thesan takes another step towards me, presses a kiss to my forehead, and then he murmurs the words that make my heart melt:

"You are the light of my life, Aurora. Never forget it—never let anyone dim it."

Tonight, I don’t think dimming my light will be possible.


	26. Lucien

Aurora extends an invitation to the ball to me.

I accept it, Cauldron boil me, without a care in the world for what the courts think of me, no matter that they think me complicit in Feyre’s deceit and destruction of Tamlin’s court. I accept it because things are going so well lately, because when it felt like I had lost all friends I have found new ones, and because…

Because I think I deserve to have a good time. After losing all hope. After everything.

And when the invitation had come, when I had envisioned Tamlin and Aurora and how lonesome the night might be should they spend the entirety of it together, the first person I had thought of was my mate—the mate that wants nothing to do with me. 

"Do you think... do you think it's worth inviting Elain?" I had asked Tamlin one day, a question passed off as absent-minded. In truth, I’d been contemplating asking it since the letter had arrived at the Spring Court.

"It's up to you," Tamlin had simply replied, a shrug following. And that had been that.

I know he doesn’t ever want to see an Archeron again—or at least for as long as he can, considering Feyre’s High Lady title. But I think part of him understands; now that he has Aurora, now that the mating bond is likely to kick in any day now, he understands. And for that, he’s a better male—in some aspects, of course. Tamlin is still Tamlin, and Tamlin still has a long way to go. 

If only he knew what I’d smelled that day—that day when I brought Aurora the cat…

But I’m not going to ruin it for him. I can’t. 

If it happens, that’s something for them to deal with another day—together. Far, far into the future.

I hope.

And when I see Elain again, she’s too kind to refuse my company. There have been many times where I have simply visited her in Velaris only to sit there, to simply bask in her presence, and sometimes—on the good days, on my lucky days—we even read together. Still in silence, but… it’s something. Something we have in common. I ask her the odd question and occasionally she answers; occasionally, she ignores me, too.

But when it comes to her cycle, there’s no ignoring me now.

I was there the last time. I will be this time. And the next, and the next.

I’m readjusting the pillows behind her back when I finally work up the courage to ask her. It’s not ideal—not when she’s in pain, but with the hot water bottle and the warm drink I brought her, she’s doing a little better. She’s less pale, although she’s evidently trying to hide the pain in her eyes. _Maybe,_ I think, forcing myself to be confident, _the topic will be a nice distraction—a welcome one._

"I wanted to ask you something," I murmur, perching on the side of her bed—barely touching the mattress. And yet I don’t fail to notice how she shifts her feet away from me slightly, shifts so that she’s putting distance between us. I almost feel ridiculous for coming here.

But nobody else is here to help her, not while Feyre is busy running the Night Court alongside Rhys.

If that’s _actually_ what they’re doing. Their scents are sickening most of the time, and they leave very little to the imagination in regards to what they’d been doing moments before.

Elain simply looks across at me. Her brown hues flicker across my features, settling for a few long seconds on my mechanical eye, and then she makes a point of looking in my russet one— _continue,_ her features say. I think. They certainly don't say shut up.

"I've been invited to a party," I begin slowly, gently, my heart hammering in my chest, "and I was wondering if you would like to attend with me, if by that time you’re feeling better. I know you used to like them."

Silence. One beat, two beats, three— 

"Whose party is it?"

I shift slightly, an attempt to make myself a little more comfortable. But there’s no way to do that physically, not when the reason for my discomfort lies so much deeper—

"High Lord Thesan of the Dawn Court," I respond, nodding respectfully—merely to indicate that he is, in fact, a good male. "His court makes even me jealous. You and his daughter would get along, too."

Elain is quiet for a while. And then she asks, "Is there an occasion?"

I glance away. An occasion. Yes, there’s an occasion—one that’s awfully well received on my part. I’ll take as much free wine as I can get, thank you.

"They want things to feel normal again,” I respond truthfully. “After everything. That used to be... that used to be the way it was in Thesan's court. Party after party, week after week—although what's strange is that he's not particularly the partying kind, not in terms of, ah, how... outgoing he is."

Elain’s brows furrow ever so slightly. Am I rambling? I think I'm rambling, and yet even despite that look in her eye, I can't stop.

“They're tasteful parties,” I respond. “Elegant ones. Think ball-gowns, a palace that looks like it was made from the dawn itself, music to—”

_Music to fall in love to._

I clear my throat. But Elain is watching, waiting for me to continue, so I force myself to muster up some words quick. It’s not hard—at least, it shouldn’t be. Not when I’ve been an emissary for so long, and not when I’ve had to maneuver around the slimiest sorts of people for decade upon decade. But this is Elain—this is Elain, and every word I speak to her feels like a wrong move. A mistake.

How am I supposed to change that if I don’t try?

It’s a never-ending circle of misunderstanding. And I desperately want to understand. I desperately want to love her.

 _No,_ I correct myself. _I want her to love me back. Love… I already love her._

_Or do I just love the idea of her?_

I don't know. All I know is that she's my mate, and regardless of the reasoning behind my feelings, something deep within me calls me to her. I can't give up—I don't want to stop trying. What do I have left, if not to live for this?

“Music to lose yourself in,” I continue, quieter this time. “Music to forget all your troubles.”

And then— 

"I will think about it, if that's alright," Elain responds.

That’s the last I hear from her about it.

And as I stand ready in my formal attire in the house that Jurian, Vassa and I share, the house that belongs to the Band of Exiles, I convince myself that she simply hasn’t made up her mind yet—that she’d let me know if she really didn’t want to come. _Maybe it's just her distaste of crowds making her hesitate,_ I think to myself, hoping that I might see her any moment now. And even as I prepare to winnow, I linger for just a moment more; I linger in the hope that she will come, that she will attend this party with me in the way a mate should, that finally, finally, we will have a chance to know one another properly.

I want to see her on the doorstep in a beautiful dress with flowers in her hair, perhaps even a tiara on her head. It would be so very Elain, so… perfectly Elain.

She doesn’t show.

I arrive at the Spring Court to find Tamlin staring at his reflection in the mirror, eerily silent.

Already, this does not look good.

I know that look in his eye. It’s not one that scares me, not like the undying rage he had felt—and shown the entire manor—after Feyre had been stolen, and it's not the fear that had creeped behind those wild, wide green orbs once the rage had subsided. No—the look in his eye is empty, void of all emotion aside from the thoughts that inevitably scream inside of his head.

It fills my stomach not with dread, not with fear, but with apprehension.

I approach him slowly like I would a roaring lion or a grunting bear—like I would a wounded animal that is afraid, that needs help, that doesn’t understand what help _is._

That’s what he is, after all—what part of him is. And perhaps it’s what part of him always will be.

“Tam?” I call his name softly as I approach. A hand splays out slightly in front of me, a subconscious sign of peace, of wariness. Like I'm approaching that wounded animal now. _Calm,_ the gesture says, but I'm not sure if it translates.

He doesn’t say anything.

The room is dark despite the sunlight that filters in through the windows, fading fast. Faster. Faster. The gold of his doublet glints in the line of light that seeps through the glass windowpane, but it darkens the roots of green that line the bottoms and the shoulders of the doublet’s elegant satin design.

I wait.

And perhaps Tamlin doesn’t deserve my presence here. I know that.

But I can’t stay away. 

I know part of me should be stronger, and I know that part of me should never have tried to mend things between us. But I can’t. I love him like a brother—like more than a brother, in the simplest way possible. He is a part of me just as much as Elain. Our fates are intertwined, even if I have had to come to his rescue, his aid, more times than I can count—more times than I would like to admit.

Slowly, eventually, Tamlin speaks.

“Do you remember the last time we were invited to a party?”

Shit.

Now is time for the dread. And oh, how dread knows its calling: it fills my stomach, makes my blood run cold, makes all heat from my body vacate as if my father’s power is non-existent within me. As if I’m _not_ the son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

Amarantha’s party—the party that had seen us all cursed.

“Hard to forget,” I respond, my throat suddenly tight.

He’s quiet again. The silence around us is deafening, roaring, far too loud for my Fae ears. Not even the ticking of a clock sounds nearby.

“Are you ready to go?” I ask tentatively, my gaze glued to the way he stares at himself, his gaze empty in the ornate golden mirror before him. 

More silence.

“Tam?”

“No,” he responds.

No. _No._ No what? It’s a simple answer, a simple word, and yet it’s laced with so much meaning—so much emotion.

He’s not just talking about the party.

“No?” I’m sweating, I’m sure, sweating as if the ocean itself is trying to rip from my body— 

“I said no.”

And then…

And then, with all the determination of a High Lord that has nothing left but despair, but wreckage, but sorrow, Tamlin turns around.

He’s not the male Aurora has made him. In that moment, he’s a shell of himself.

In that moment, he’s the male I had seen weeks ago—the male who had been starving and pale and hollow, so hollow, the downed male that Rhys had only kicked further into the abyss. 

The High Lord of Spring turns around and walks away—right past me, right through the door that leads out into the hallway.

Away from the golden invitation left lying on the dresser beside him. 

Away from Aurora.

Away from his _mate._

And suddenly, suddenly, I am filled with rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow we will see a big chapter (3-4k words) and in return, Sunday will have no update. Enjoy today and tomorrow!


	27. Aurora, Lucien and Tamlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that since this is a big update, there'll be no update on Sunday. Enjoy!! Please let me know what you think via comments <3

> _AURORA ..._

The palace hasn’t been this busy in decades.

A large part of me loves it. I can hear the hum of chatter even as myself, father and Auralis make our way towards the grandiose doors of the ballroom, ready to make our entrance; I can hear the thrum of music, gentle and slow, ready for the party to begin. I can hear laughter and movement and voices, so many voices, filled with glee and relief and warmth in a palace that likely felt so empty and cold during the era of imprisonment that so many in this ballroom had faced not so long ago.

But there's another part of me that stirs tonight. It's a part of me that is filled with rage—the part of me that I very rarely let slip, the part of me that I often forget is there. It's stirring, angry, enraged that it took so long for a semblance of normalcy to return.

She did this— _she_ took our lives from us.

And as the doors to that ballroom begin to open, as a wave of music and chatter reaches my ears as the doors are finally wide open and our presence is announced; when the chatter dies down and all eyes turn to myself, Auralis and my father…

I realise that I’m _angry._

I am reminded of all that she did, all that the people in this room saw of me— 

All that she did to others.

All that she did to _me._

Not _her._ Not _she._

Amarantha.

 _Say her name,_ a voice in the back of my head spits at me. _Say it. Say it, and you do not let her consume you._

The ballroom glitters with gold and ivory and pinks and purples, yellows and oranges, all the colours of the dawn court—all colours of wealth and riches. The people around us wear a wide array of formal attire, dresses and doublets and robes that make up a wave of colour which brightens up the room itself. In the distance, large glass doors just a few inches shy of extending to the ceiling lead to an outdoor area filled with grass and gravel and plants and fountains, but the area is small. The spacious balconies which line the right side of the room make up for it, though, and I know they’ll likely be used for a quick get-away and a touch or two later on—as well as the cushioned alcoves intended for sitting which line the ballroom to the left.

The last time I was around this many people, it had been in a place far darker than this. Far more sinister. Far deadlier.

I will not let them forget that I came out of it alive.

“High Lord Thesan and Lord Auralis welcome you to their celebrations,” a voice rings out as we come to a stop at the top of the stairs. Music still plays, a soft, melodic tone that sings of dreams and hopes still yet to be born, but it’s quiet—quiet enough for the importance of my father’s presence to be known. 

And yet as father and Auralis begin to descend down, as I wait before I follow… 

All eyes are on me.

I stride slowly, darkly, _smugly_ down the steps in time to the music. My gait is, for once, akin to a predator’s rather than prey, and the sway of my hips sings like a harmony alongside the swish of my dress on the floor as I meander down, down, down. I do not pale as countless eyes in the room are drawn to me.

There is something dark in me in this moment—something deep and proud. And they all see it. My wings flare so that they’re on full display, proud of all my scars, proud of all that I’ve been through that brought me right here, right to this moment. 

And as I reach the bottom of the stairs and the celebrations begin, I vow to myself that I will not let anyone make me feel inferior tonight.

> _LUCIEN ..._

I scoop up the invitation from the dresser and follow after him, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Do you realise how lucky you are?” I hiss at him, my fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Tamlin turns to me, turns to look at my hand around his wrist, and...

Nothing. The Tamlin in front of me is made up of heavy shoulders and a blank stare, and I know then that the Tamlin I had seen weeks ago before Aurora's influence has returned. I hope to see that searing hot look in his eye, that look reserved only for his enemies, but there's nothing but that darkness. It would be better than the void he had been staring into just moments before, that mirror, that reflection of a ghost, those dead eyes that stare back at me now—

I continue, “You have a mate who cares for you, who adores you, and you are going to throw that away. You’re going to _break her heart.”_

And before I know it the words are tumbling from my mouth, spilling, _devouring_ me whole— 

“You have a mate who wants to know you, who _wants_ you in her life, who doesn’t ignore you every time you walk into the room, who _doesn’t_ simply sit there because she’s too kind to tell you to go away. And you’re going to walk away right now, throw _everything_ you have that I do not in my face—you’re going to spit on it and rub it in my face, Tamlin, and if you do this there will be no going back, no fixing _anything_ between us because I—because I _deserve_ this, Tamlin, after everything I deserve this; I want it so badly and I—I cannot _have_ it—”

Tamlin just stares. Even as I can’t muster up the words to speak anymore, he just stares—lets his gaze flicker frantically across my features as tears well in my eye, stares as I place my hands on his shoulders, stares as I grip him hard, as I grip for dear life— 

“Please,” I beg, my eyes closing, “please. _Please._ Please."

When I finally open my eyes again, when my russet eye meets his green orbs, Tamlin's lips are parted. Parted as if he wants to say something, _something,_ but he can’t find the words.

He’s never been good with words. It’s why he kept me around.

It feels like a millennia before he speaks. I know he has to will himself to do it, has to give himself the strength to do it, has to physically force the words from his mouth. Because in this moment… in this moment I understand. That emptiness, that void… I’ve been there before. It’s been a part of me.

After Amarantha had taken my eye and Tamlin had been reduced to sickness at the sight of me, after the mighty High Lord of Spring himself had vomited on the floor metres away, I had known then that somehow, _somehow,_ life wouldn’t ever be the same again.

I just hadn’t understood how.

It had been hard to speak—hard to eat, hard to sleep. The least I can do is give him my patience. He had given that to me way back then, after all.

“What if...” Tamlin begins, his gaze glued to mine as if my face is a lifeline: my russet eye, my metal one, my golden-brown skin and the angles of my face. “What if it's the same?”

I know he means Amarantha. The ball. The masquerade that had seen the Spring Court cursed.

What she had done there scars us both in ways we still feel now.

“It’s the Dawn Court,” I have to force myself to say, force myself to breathe, because deep in my mind there’s that fear too—fear of gatherings, fear of parties, fear of anything that isn’t hosted at the Spring Court—and even fear of events that _are_ nonetheless. “It’s Aurora.”

Tamlin is quiet as his brows crease, and yet I can see the cogs of his mind turning, moving. He’s thinking, although I simply cannot place what he’s thinking about—I can’t imagine the thought of walking away from Elain, from a party, from being able to hold her close and whisper sweet nothings to her while the music is too loud for anyone to hear. I can’t imagine that. I couldn’t do that.

But Tamlin wasn't great at dealing with his emotions before, and he's certainly not great at dealing with his trauma now.

“ _Tamlin_ ,” I insist, begging him again—begging him to say something, _anything._

Tamlin looks away, out of the windows lining the hallway that face the beach. He closes his eyes, his body falling slack in a way that makes him look tired, that highlights just how much weight he’s lost over the past few months. I wonder just how many more of these episodes of despair he can take before he cracks.

"I will be with you at this party every step of the way," I promise him. It's my last attempt—my last try to save something that has worked out so well for him so far.

More silence.

"Think of Aurora," I beg.

Tamlin is silent—deathly silent. But something flickers in his gaze, something bright and longing and—dare I say it—loving, and that's when something shifts in my chest, too. Hope.

And then slowly, slowly, he turns to me and nods.

And as relief floods my system, as my hand finds his shoulder, I don’t hesitate in winnowing us to the Dawn Court before Tamlin can change his mind.

> _AURORA ..._

The movements of my fingers are nervous against the sparkling glass that holds my wine.

Tap, tap, tap—a tiny movement that is keeping a big part of me sane. Grounded. Here.

And yet _he’s_ not here.

He has to be here somewhere. He _has_ to be. Why wouldn’t he?

I know the sight of his hair, those broad shoulders and that waist that narrows enough to make his form lean and slim, those high cheekbones and those green eyes that almost seem to glow with the warmth of the sun. I know every part of him inch by inch even despite the fact that I haven't seen him bare in front of me with my own eyes. I would know him anywhere. He's part of me as much as I'm part of him, now, as damaged and hurt as he may be.

I'm the same, after all.

And yet he's _still not here._

"Excuse me," I murmur to my companions, a smile gracing my lips as I excuse myself from our conversation.

Small talk—it had been nothing but small talk alongside a few white lies and scandalous rumours. And yet I had delighted in it; I had delighted in something so reminiscent of my childhood, so reminiscent of times where _nothing_ and _everything_ mattered all at once. But now, as I cast my eyes out and scan the room for a familiar flash of gold or green or perhaps even Lucien's red hair, I can feel my temper rising.

It's not like me to get frustrated. I know he's probably just... just late, or something came up, or maybe his lack of presence here is out of his control. But I promised myself I wouldn't let anything get me down tonight, and I will _not_ cry. The next best thing is anger.

 _He'd be here,_ I insist to myself. _The Tamlin I know and care for would be here._

And yet he isn't.

 _Who would have seen him?_ My gaze snags Auralis out of the corner of my eye, laughing and joking with some fellow soldiers—easily distinguishable despite their lack of armour—in one of the seating areas dotted about the ballroom. Auralis is always watchful; if he himself were High Lord, I might think his beast form would be an eagle, or something similar. If anyone knows if Tamlin has arrived or where he is, it's him... and if not, one of his men will surely know. 

Auralis' attention is drawn to me as I approach, and so, too, are some of the guards' eyes. Their conversation slowly dies down as I come to a stop in front of them, and one of the soldiers even nudges one of the louder ones in the side—a silent gesture to shut up. Aidos sits in the booth alongside his fellow soldiers, companions, friends, but not Cora. I'd left her moments before in order to go and mingle with some courtiers I hadn't seen in a while, and since she'd been at the bar, she hadn't entirely minded. But Aidos… I certainly hadn't expected him to be best buddies with Auralis, certainly.

I frown at him. He looks away.

"Aurora," Auralis greets me, his cheeks faintly flushed from the alcohol, "how can we help you?"

I force myself to take a breath, an attempt to muster up some patience. “Have you seen Tamlin?”

Collectively, the soldiers tense. I might find it funny that they're so terrified of one male's name alone if I couldn't feel my heart beginning to race faster and faster in my chest, sickness spreading in my stomach—

Auralis frowns, his displeasure at such a name evident. “No. Why?”

I force another intake of breath, my eyes fluttering closed. _You swore to yourself,_ I hear a voice in the back of my head whisper—a voice that doesn’t sound very much like mine at all. _You swore you wouldn’t let anyone make you feel inferior tonight._

I’m determined to keep that promise to myself. I won’t let anyone ruin my night—not even Tamlin.

"You alright?" Aidos asks me, and suddenly, he's by my side. His fingers ghost my elbow.

I nod, a movement that isn't that convincing at all. "I just need some air."

In no time, I'm making my way across the ballroom and heading for the safety of the gardens outside.

> _TAMLIN ..._

Lucien winnows us right into the middle of the party.

One minute we're in the Spring Court, the next minute we're in Dawn. We skip the formalities that should see us formally announced; there's a procedure to follow, a way to arrive, especially with my title. Lucien knows this. I know this. But perhaps he doesn't want to take that risk, not when I've only just agreed to come to this party in the first place.

I'm still not sure that being here is a good idea, not with the crowds of people around us—not with the courtiers and servants and nobles. The sheer amount of people is overwhelming, distracting, so much so that it's hard to hear my own thoughts.

If I just find Aurora; if I just find the female I'm here to dance with, to laugh with, to spend the entire evening with—

Then I'll be fine. Then everything will be fine.

One breath. Another. And another, this time deeper.

Slowly, as I focus on my breathing, this place is getting just a little bit easier to live in. We stand atop a raised dais with a long staircase cut out between it, likely the steps I should've walked down should I have been announced.

"You need a drink?" Lucien asks me, his voice familiar against the swarm of faces that simply _aren't._ People are starting to notice my presence now; some murmur, some gesture in my direction, but I ignore them.

After all, I'm not here for them.

I clear my throat and nod in Lucien's direction, and that's all the confirmation he needs. He's glancing about the room in search of a servant with drinks in no time, and—

And that's when I see her. She's a mere flash of gold from below, but I'd recognise her anywhere—beautiful in a way that makes my heart race, seductive in a way that makes my eyes cloud over with longing. That dress... oh, the sight of her makes something stir inside me. But she's walking away before I can call to her.

Aidos—I think—follows after her, and the sight of it fills me with a rage that I don't quite understand. It stirs something deep within; something primal, something vicious.

And as I weave past courtiers going up and down the staircase, courtiers that stare at me as I go, I make to follow her.

> _AURORA ..._

The cool air of the gardens hits me like a wave.

The breath I take once I'm outside is refreshing and grounding, the noise within reduced to a vague muffle of voices and melodic tones. I force myself to close my eyes as I lean against one of the pillars at the top of the set of steps we stand at. The steps themselves lead down into the small garden area below, filled with shrubbery, garden benches and fountains, but given that the Dawn Palace sits atop a mountain, it's not a very spacious outside area at all. It _is_ big enough for a sneaky getaway with a lover, however, and because of that reason, I don't try to cast my hearing out past where I now stand. I don't want to hear anything, feel anything, _be_ anything—

"Aurora," Aidos croaks.

"Yes?" I manage to respond.

Aidos responds slowly, suggestively, "You look..."

I can feel his gaze taking in my figure, memorising it for later, even despite my closed eyes. Aidos has always been teasing, but he's never been flirty—never like this. It must be alcohol, or perhaps the aftermath of those unmistakably male jokes he's likely been exchanging between his fellow soldiers, with Auralis—

Oh, I do not have _time_ for this.

I press my lips together and look at him pointedly. "Please, Aidos. It's not like you to resort to flattery."

Aidos blinks, surprised. "It's not like you to be so forward."

"Well," I breathe, pushing myself off the pillar to saunter towards him, "I'm feeling like a new female."

Slowly, Aidos' lips creep up into a grin. "Oh really?"

My nose crinkles in annoyance. "Yes. Really."

"Interesting. And does this make you a royal bitch now?"

My brows rise with outrage. " _Excuse_ me?"

"It's just a joke."

"Have you been drinking?" It's the only explanation for him being so _rude—_

He shrugs, slipping his hands into the pockets of his finery. "A little."

I shake my head, gathering my skirts in my hands, and then I make to venture down the garden steps. Tamlin... perhaps the sheer volume of the music or the amount of chatter within the ballroom got too much for him—maybe he's out here, maybe he's taking a breather, maybe he can save me from hearing any more words from this _idiot_ male, not that I need saving in the first place. But it certainly is nice to have the luxury.

"Where are you going?" Aidos calls after me. The sound of his feet as he follows me down the steps is impossible to drown out.

"To look for Tamlin," I respond, my pretty satin shoes crunching on the gravel at the bottom of the staircase. Out here, the sound of crickets is almost as loud as the music from indoors.

"Don't fool yourself, Aurora," Aidos bites back, coming to a halt at the end of the steps. "He's not coming."

I whirl around to face him, my sneer venomous. "You know _nothing_ of him. You have no right to say anything of his character."

Aidos leans back, crossing his arms. "I know he's the reason that the very people you're laughing with in that ballroom are spreading rumours behind your back."

I tilt my head, an innocent flutter of my lashes following. "And _have_ you figured out who the cause of that is yet?"

Aidos' gaze darkens. "I'm working on it."

I throw my hands into the air in exasperation. "Then you _don't_ know he's the reason, just like you don't know a thing about him. Figure out who's spreading those rumours, Aidos, and _then_ get back to me. Everyone—everyone's always saying all these _things_ of him, like _oh, Aurora, be careful, he's horrible and foul and deserves to sit in a pit of despair,_ but all he's done is _care_ for me. And yet you want to focus on him— _him_ ," I snarl, pacing towards him with my fists clenched, "when the very people of this court are the ones who see fit to stab me in the back?"

Aidos' demeanour is dark, dark, dark, his gaze just the same. "You're being stupidly defensive of a male who's stood you up."

"If I don't defend him, nobody else will!"

Aidos takes a desperate step towards me. "I don't _understand,_ Aurora. Why? Why _care_ , and why _him,_ of all people? You have me, Cora, your parents—you have other people who _care_ for you."

He could never understand. He never _will_ understand. I can feel the anger bubbling under my skin, forcing words to tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them; before I can even think about whether I _want_ to stop them at all. Maybe this has to be said; maybe Aidos won't get the hint otherwise—

"Once, Aidos," I begin slowly, dangerously, the blinding irritation in my voice clear as the dawn, "there was a time when I had no one at all. Once, there was a time where all I had was a dark cell and my own vomit to sleep in, and when they took my feathers—took my _wings—_ they took a part of me I didn't even realise I had left to lose. So, Aidos, it's safe to say that I understand. I understand being alone, and feeling terrified, and feeling like it's the end of the world even when the days keep going on, and on, and on when you don't want them to. So, Aidos, I _do_ understand—and I understand more than you _ever_ will."

The silence around us is defeaning. The chirping of the crickets is the only sound that lingers between us, their cries ringing out as loud as the beating of war drums. Aidos' lips part—and yet no sound slips from his lips as he just stares, and stares, and stares. I can tell by the look on his face that he knows he's made a mistake; that he knows he shouldn't have said the things he just said. And yet he has. And there's no going back from it now.

"Aurora, I didn't mean to—"

"You can never understand," I tell him, my voice shaking—Mother above, my whole _body_ is shaking. My fists clench at my sides. "You never _will_ understand."

"Rora—"

"I'm not the pretty little sunshine maiden you think I am, Aidos."

I turn away from him, wanting to finally search for the male I care so deeply for. _Please be here. Tamlin, please._ I need his comfort, his embrace; I need my fingers to still, need my knees to stop wobbling, need this night to feel right like it was supposed to—

"Aurora," a voice says from behind me, and then... 

And then I see him.

> _TAMLIN ..._

Aurora.

Aurora Morningsworn stands before me, below me, a few steps away—she’s there and she’s beautiful and graceful and irresistible, glittering with the light of the dawn herself. She glitters like gold except she's far, far more invaluable, far more precious, far more important. I want to caress her cheeks, cup her jaw, press kisses to the soft skin of her face, intertwine my fingers with her hair, pull her closer and lose ourselves in the sway of the music. And she's—

Different.

Beautiful, certainly, as always, and yet…

Not a youngling. Not anymore. 

A female.

It's a female that turns to look at me, wide eyed and wonderful; it's a female who wears that dress of glittering gold, with its flowing skirts and that sleek, cut out section that shows off her legs, her hips, her waist; a female wears that tiara of gold that reminds me of the dawn itself; a female wears that sheer, modest neckline, showing maturity and modesty despite the dress' daring slit; it's the female before me who looks like she was moulded out of the sun herself, perfect and present and real.

That’s when it snaps.

The air is sucked from my lungs in the same way the magic takes over on Calanmai; fast, brutal, rabid. Wanting. _My mate,_ I want to rasp, but I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but stare at her, eyes wide as the scent of her burns my lungs and overwhelmed my senses and fills me with _need, need, need—_

My mate.

Aurora Morningsworn is my mate.

> _AURORA ..._

Tamlin is an image of charm at the top of the stairs, his golden hair shining bright in the light from the ballroom within—golden hair which highlights the tan of his skin, the points of his ears, his high cheekbones. Wisps of green line the bottom of his doublet like vines, the same sort of intricate detail lining his boots, and the chest of his doublet...

Golden thread forms the rays of the sun spread out from the center, bringing light and life to the plants at the bottom. A perfect blend of Dawn and Spring. 

He looks perfect. So perfect. Like everything I would have imagined the perfect male to look like.

“Tamlin,” I whisper, my heart thudding in my chest. _He's here. He's here. He's here._

He lowers himself a step towards me, a desperate sort of look in his eye, and my heart races at the fact that he might not be okay, that he might be upset, that there's something wrong, wrong, wrong. I hadn’t realised how much I need him, how much I care for him, how much his happiness is crucial to mine. Maybe it’s unhealthy, maybe that’s just love, but— 

Love— _I love him,_ I realise, my heart and thoughts racing all at once. _I love him I love him I love him—_

That's when it snaps.

> _TAMLIN ..._

“Tamlin,” Lucien murmurs beside me, a warning I only just hear.

The mating bond is overpowering; it wants me to rush forwards and _take her,_ but Lucien's hand clamps down on my arm and tries to pin me to the spot. I snarl—snarl at him for keeping me away from my mate, for trying to come between us, for the mere fact that he's here, that he's near her, _my mate my mate my mate—_

The breath is stolen from Aurora's lungs as she almost stumbles towards me, only stopped by Aidos' hand on her forearm.

Aidos. A male. A male to eliminate.

Another snarl slips from my lips—only this time, it’s from the beast within.

“Control your mutt,” Aidos growls at Lucien.

It does nothing for my temper; it just makes me bristle all the more, rage burning as bright as the light of the dawn itself. Beside me, I hear Lucien suck in a sharp breath. Aurora's eyes are trained on me just as mine are to her, to her body, to the scent of her _—my mate my mate my mate—_

“Mates. We're mates,” Aurora says, her voice a near-whisper as she stares. And stares. And stares.

Aidos' attention snaps to her, his lips parting in surprise. I swear his hold on her tightens—

“Get away from her," I growl, unable to stop the words from slipping from my lips. It's an instant reaction. I take a few slow, deadly steps forward, my gaze darkening. _Protect,_ the mating bond screams at me. It had been a strong urge before, but now... 

Aidos sneers at me. “No."

And then I'm snarling, tearing my way towards him as claws elongate at my sides, but Lucien is somehow already half way down the stairs before me and I’m bracing, bracing for him to touch Aurora, bracing for Lucien to try to claim her as his, but he doesn’t—he comes to a stop before Aidos with this flaming hot look in his eye, a look I haven't seen before as Aurora pulls her arm from Aidos' hold, fingers clutching the space where his hand had been, as my eyes assess for any damage, any injury—

“If you don’t come with me now," Lucien says, low and threatening, "he will tear you apart."

"Go, Aidos," Aurora begs, her eyes wide—still on me, her mate, her mate—"Get out of here."

"Aurora—"

Her voice is raised, angry, as she cries at him, "Go away!" 

For a moment he simply stares, his chest heaving, and then finally, finally, he pulls his feet off the gravel of the gardens and _moves._ And when he passes me on the steps... 

"Touch her again," I rumble at him, low and threatening, "and I will tear your hands from your body myself."

He lets out a hiss of sharp breath, venom laced within it, and then turns away from me and continues up the steps with a rumble of his own—disgruntled, disproving.

But he doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not with her right in front of me.

I'm cupping her cheeks in an instant as her fingers find my waist.

> _AURORA ..._

"Tamlin," I whisper, my eyes closing as soon as his fingers touch my skin. I want to repeat his name over and over but I stop myself, have to force myself not to, and for now I just lean into his touch, his hold, basking in the warmth of it—

"I'll leave you two to it," Lucien says quietly, slowly, from beside us. "Tam, I'll... I'll be inside if you need me."

I hear his boots as they crunch on the gravel, and then as he makes his way up the steps. And when they fade away, when they mingle with the voices and music from indoors...

That's when I give into my needs entirely.

> _TAMLIN ..._

I cannot stop the moan that slips from my throat as our lips finally meet.

I step forward until Aurora's back flattens against the hedge behind her, and a noise of surprise slips from her lips as we're forced to a sudden stop. I wrap an arm around her waist to pull her closer, to beckon her deeper, and the shrill noise of content that she makes against my lips is so sweet, so helpless, so innocent and teasing, so much so that I cannot stop the way my tongue slips out to meet her own. And the groan that slips from her own throat in response... it stirs something deep inside of me, something carnal, something that wants me to do nothing but push into her and fuck her hard until she comes, until she's shaking around me and crying my name—

“Tamlin,” she gasps my name against my lips, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.

I can smell her desire from here, can smell how her heartbeat thuds between her legs for me, can feel her nipples stiffen under my touch as my hands see fit to roam, see fit to tease—

Mate. My mate. My mate.

I want to take her here and now, onlookers be damned. I want to hear her gasp as I push into her, plunging deep; I want to pull out only to slam myself into her slick heat again and again, over and over until my name rings out like a mantra on her lips, like a heavenly cry meant for me, me, me, until she shudders around me and I spill my seed inside of her, my mate my mate my mate—

As if the deed is already done, my mind suddenly clears.

Aurora. Not just my mate. _Aurora—bright, innocent, heavenly Aurora._

I pull away from her, my hands moving to her waist; away from her breasts, away from anywhere inappropriate.

“Aurora,” I breathe, my fingers finding her cheek—shaking, unsteady with fear that she might take it back, that she might realise that this isn't what she wants _—_ and yet I'm still breathless, awed, as I whisper, “Aurora."

She nuzzles into my hold without shame, her eyes fluttering closed once more. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

I can't help but chuckle, my arms wrapping around her body to hold her close. “That’s what you want to talk about right now?”

“We could talk about the fact that that was my first kiss.”

I make to part from her, ashamed at my lack of control, suddenly afraid that I might lose control again; suddenly afraid that I might—

“No,” she says, and pulls me closer.

She leans up to press her lips to mine again, and this time, our kiss is sweet—softer than before, full of love and longing, a desire to be held. Her fingers ghost the back of my neck as she pulls me closer and I'm slowly losing myself in her scent, her warmth, her embrace. My own fingers cup her cheek as a soft noise of content slips from her throat, and— 

This is what it should feel like.

This is what it’s always supposed to feel like.

Love—deep in my stomach, rooted there forever.

In that moment, I know that finally, finally, I'm home.


	28. Tamlin

I’m not sure how long we stand there basking in one another’s presence.

But eventually, in a shift of the mood that I don’t even notice, we simply end up… holding one another. Sometimes, Aurora leans up to kiss me and the lusting resumes; sometimes, I lean down to pepper kisses to her fingers, her cheeks, to the freckles that dot that adorable nose… but eventually, when the silence has gone on for long enough, Aurora is the first one to break it.

“Dance with me,” she demands softly, her arms around my neck as she stares up into my green eyes.

My fingers brush against her cheek, soothing, loving, and there is a peacefulness in my heart that I know comes from finding my home, from realising that _she_ is my home. The reality of our situation hasn’t kicked in yet; I know we’re mates, I know that we’re destined to be together, and yet I can still hardly believe she’s here, that she’s in my arms, that she just didn’t flee the moment she found out.

“Just let me hold you a little while longer,” I murmur, making an effort to memorise the curves of her face, the smell of her scent, as I bury my face in her hair—at least as much as I can, given the crown atop her head. “I need to hold you. Please.”

"Mm..." She rests her head on my chest and I let out a breath, my arms wrapping around her. "I can do that."

I close my eyes, losing myself in just the two of us, the scent of us, the feel of us. She presses a soft kiss to my jaw, one that sends tingles down my body, and I wonder if she’ll always be like this—so sweet, so innocent, so optimistic. I hope so. That brightness, that healing light…

My court is going to need that. Even I still need that. I need _her._

"What are you doing?" I mumble into her hair, the sweet smell of vanilla and roses mixed among it like a perfect perfume as she begins to wriggle and sway in my arms.

"Dancing," she murmurs back. 

Aurora steps back and takes my hand in her own. It takes everything in me not to complain as she parts from me, but when she twirls herself around and still holds my hand all the while, I can’t help but let out a huff of laughter. When I pull her closer again, she snickers in response.

"Don’t you know it’s impolite to refuse a highborn female?" Aurora teases, another kiss to my jaw following.

Slowly, slowly, I start to move with her—a gentle swaying to the hum of music inside. It’s not much, but with Aurora in my arms, it’s enough.

"Is that better?"

"Mm," she responds, nestling into my shoulder.

More silence follows, and as we sway gracefully, peacefully to the muted music from indoors, I bask in it. It’s comfortable, perfect, just the two of us—just as it should be for a lifetime and more. _I want to spend the rest of my days with her,_ I realise _,_ inhaling a calming, soothing breath after.

“We should talk about this,” I murmur.

Aurora shakes her head. “Later. I want to dance with you inside first. So that everyone can see.” 

I shake my head. "If we go in there now," I murmur, my lips finding her ear, "then I won’t be able to stop myself from tearing apart every single male that looks in your direction."

Aurora’s intake of breath is sharp as she responds, “That wouldn’t be good.”

A noise of agreement rumbles out from within my chest, deep and suggestive. “And with that dress…” 

I don’t finish my sentence. Slowly, teasingly, I kiss her jaw, her neck, her collarbones—any part of her skin that my lips can touch. Her breath hitches in her throat and her back arches, arches in a way that tells me she wants more, more, more—

"Tamlin," she moans, and she might as well have touched the sweetest spot on my body, because that’s how my name on her lips feels.

“The things you do to me… ” That dress, that body, that _beauty—_

She takes a shuddering breath and my fingers slowly travel up, up, up towards her chest, another hand wrapping around her leg to pull her flush against me— 

And then she wriggles out of my hold.

I let out a growl of displeasure and she giggles— _giggles_ as she runs up the steps mere inches away from us, _giggles_ as I follow her with a look in my eye that screams hunger, lust, anything that demands for me to take her and claim her. She comes to a stop at the top of the stairs, our forms only just illuminated by the light spilling out from inside the ballroom now, and I make to wrap my arms around her and pull her against me _hard,_ but before I know it she’s tugging me in the other direction as she steps backwards to get there.

Her back hits one of the pillars and I’m on her in seconds, our lips meeting once more. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss, no easing into it, not when her tongue slips out to meet mine and my body rages for her in response. My fingers find a fistful of her hair in a grip that makes her gasp in pleasure against my lips and I growl in approval, pressing into her hard in an attempt to find some sort of relief, some sort of release— 

I don't want it soft. Not now. Now tonight. And neither does she.

She’s _demanding_ as she rolls her hips against mine, forcing a groan to slip from deep in my throat; she’s _desperate_ as she pulls me closer by the collar of my doublet in a way that I don’t entirely mind. I’m just the same as I dig my fingers into her thigh— 

"Are you two serious?" I hear a voice near us ask. Cora.

It takes a while for Aurora to pull her lips from mine, and it takes even longer for the haze of lust and the smell of her sex to allow my vision to come back to me, to let me focus on anything but her. _There are certainly worse people that we could have been caught by,_ I think as I take in Cora’s appearance, surprisingly feminine despite the firmness in her face. Her dark hair is braided down one shoulder as the silver of her dress glitters in the moonlight, and her feathers, like Aurora’s, have been painted—only hers are silver, sharper, deadly like a knife. And as feminine as she looks with her purple eyeshadow, sharp cheekbones and plump lips, she does not look pleased.

"I've been here for the past _minute_ ," she says, her arms folding. "Stuck in your own little world, hm?"

I move my hand to balance myself against the pillar that Aurora leans against as I quip, "We _were._ "

Cora rolls her eyes and shifts, angling her body towards the ballroom. "Are you two going to spend all night out here fondling one another, or are you actually going to come inside?" And then to Aurora— "Thesan will start looking for you himself soon.”

Aurora's lips press together as she looks up at me, but the soft smile that slips onto her features soon after makes my heart melt. It's almost to take away from the anxiety that swiftly fills my chest, swirling in a strange mix of butterflies and nerves. Almost. My unease lingers, and although Amarantha is no longer at the forefront of my mind—though some discomfort still lingers at being around so many people, in such an unfamiliar place—it's the thought of all those males that troubles me now. All those males that I want to rip apart, that I'll tear to pieces if they even look at her wrongly—

“You _do_ still owe me a dance," Aurora says, sensing my unease. Her fingers find my forearms, soothing as she caresses my skin through the fine material of my doublet, "and we really should mingle.”

I avert my gaze to the ballroom, to the figures dancing and laughing. I know she’s right; as High Fae, we have duties even at parties like this. Pressing my lips together, I nod.

“Promise me one thing,” I murmur to her.

Aurora tilts her head. “Hm?”

“I want to hold you again at least once. If I have to be in a room full of males with their eyes on you, I need to be able to have you after.”

Beside us, Cora makes a noise of disgust. Aurora, however, merely smiles—soft and sweet and full of love.

“You can have me anytime you want, my love,” she says—and then leans up to kiss my cheek.

And when we finally make our way back into the ballroom, my hand in hers, it’s not so difficult after all.

I shoot daggers at any male that looks in her direction, of course, and when Lucien approaches us I bristle. But when shoots me a look that says _come on,_ a look that tells me that my tension is painfully obvious, I quickly realise how much of me the mating bond is actually controlling. The four of us settle into a booth together, and no, it doesn’t feel entirely right having him so close, but Aurora at least withholds from hugging him when she greets him—something which she usually tends to do.

And when Cora and Aurora leave us to speak to an old friend—a male, of course, of _course_ —and it’s just Lucien and I in our little seating area now, the conversation dies down. But it’s still comfortable (as it mostly always is with Lucien around) even if I _am_ watching that male’s every movement, each time he narrows his eyes at Cora and smiles in Aurora’s direction… 

His curly hair is stupid. And he’s wearing too many layers, far too many layers for a party as busy and bustling as this. _Winter Court,_ I think to myself, and yet he's acting as if he's still there, as if the ballroom is just as cold. Aurora wouldn’t see anything in him—would she?

“Glad to see there are no bite marks anywhere,” Lucien drawls, drawing me momentarily away from the firm gaze I have set on Aurora and that _male._ Lucien has a casual air about him as his arm splays against the back of our seats. 

I know what memory he’s referencing, and in this instance, I can find it amusing—even _despite_ who the memory is about.

Amused, I correct him, “Anywhere _visible_.”

Lucien lets out a laugh I haven’t heard in a long, a barking laugh which signs of a time long ago. I can’t help but grin in response, my gaze lowering to my goblet of wine as I bring it to my lips.

"It worked out, then," Lucien says, "if the look on her face is anything to go by."

I nod. "It did."

“I’m glad,” Lucien says, his tone laced with something... sharp. Firm. _Jealous?_

He looks at me with this piercing look in his eye, one that I can't place, not until— “Elain didn’t come," I observe.

Lucien’s gaze darkens and he shakes his head, averting his gaze to the crowds around us. I can’t imagine how he feels—how much it must hurt. _Those Archerons…_ my own gaze darkens as my fist clenches around my goblet, and truthfully, part of me is glad she didn't come tonight. I'm not sure I'd be able to hold my tongue; not with the mating bond my whole focus, not with the pain she puts him through, not after all the pain and destruction Feyre caused me. Cauldron only knows the things it would force from my lips.

I inhale sharply and say firmly, looking back at him, “Tell me what I can do.”

Lucien responds, still looking away from me, “There’s nothing you _can_ do.”

My gaze lingers on him—lingers for any sign of elaboration, of explanation, perhaps details of how he's feeling, but Lucien doesn’t look back at me. In that moment, I pity him: I have power over many things, many people, and yet the one thing my powers cannot do is force love—to _create_ it.

Part of me is glad for that. I'd have abused that power long ago if I had it.

Slowly, my gaze returns to Aurora. “I see.”

Lucien puts his feet up on the table in front of us, his gaze following my own. "For now... I’m content to annoy Cora for as long as the night allows me.”

I huff in amusement. “She’ll punch you in the face one day.”

Lucien responds, nodding, “I’m counting on it.”

I shake my head, more laughter spilling from my lips. Aurora’s gaze finds mine again and she flashes me a smile, warm and graceful. My smile in return replicates her own.

“So what happens now?” Lucien asks, glancing between the two of us. “She moves to the Spring Court and you both live happily ever after?”

I shoot him an annoyed look. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“Mm,” Lucien agrees, and then he nods to our left—towards Thesan, who is approaching with intent. Lucien straightens, removing his feet from the table as he says, “Definitely not.”

Thesan comes to a stop before us and greets us with a smile. “Tamlin,” he says, “and Lucien Vanserra. Welcome.”

 _Welcome,_ he says in all his ruby-and-gold finery, glowing the brightest in the room; _welcome,_ he says, as if I didn't just steal his daughter's first kiss in the gardens; _welcome,_ he says, as if I don't know that my presence here is only due to Aurora's insistence; _w_ _elcome,_ he says, as if his mate doesn't look at me with distrust the same way Thesan does, only stronger, less masked.

And because of all those things, there is a nervousness in me as I speak to this High Lord... a feeling that I don't entirely understand.

“Thesan," I greet him regardless, giving him a polite nod in greeting. "Your invitation is well received. Thank you.”

“Mm,” Thesan murmurs, a faint smile lining his features, “you have my daughter to thank for that.”

I respond, “I have your daughter to thank for a lot of things.”

Thesan tilts his head, curious, and I know it’s an invitation to tell him more... something that I don’t want to do, not now. It's a wonder Thesan doesn't already know about the bond. It's unlikely that our encounter outside went entirely unheard of, especially not with the state in which Aidos left us, and with all that separated us between the ballroom and the gardens being a wall and some glass doors, I have no doubt some keen ears heard _something._

It's Aurora that saves me now, her fingers wrapping around my arm—I hadn’t even seen her cross the room—as she pulls me closer to her. It's a subtle movement and yet at the same time it's claiming, marking, possessive in a gentle way that is so very like Aurora—so very like the female that I love.

“Papa,” Aurora smiles, her body brushing against mine—reassuring, soothing. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Thesan smiles. “Very much so. And you?”

Aurora nods. “I am. Auralis seems to be enjoying himself as well, although I fear his fellow soldiers might become a bad influence soon.”

So formal, so courtly and careful... I haven't heard Aurora speak like this before. Her words will prompt Thesan to go away in order to ensure that Auralis is behaving appropriately, because the prying ears around us will undoubtedly judge Thesan if he does not investigate claims which, in this fashion, are more like a screaming match than a gentle conversation. _Auralis is behaving inappropriately,_ Aurora might as well have said. I'm not sure if that's true, but the last time I saw the male, he did look to be enjoying himself.

It's all a game—a game I hadn't realised Aurora knew to play, one that Feyre hadn't understood... at least, not until she was whisked away by Rhysand. Her destruction of my court had proved that he taught her plenty. But Aurora... Aurora doesn't need to be stolen away to learn how to play the games of our kind.

I cannot help the way my lips curve upwards smugly at the thought. The thought that I had _ever_ been in love with Feyre...

It seems far off now, with a female like Aurora as my mate.

Thesan smiles a bit tersely, his attention gliding over to the corner of the room. My eyes don't follow, but I know he's looking in Auralis' direction by the look on his face. “I should probably steal him away. He can’t stay there forever.”

Aurora dips her head politely, her fingers caressing my skin through my doublet, and the movement causes heat to surge through my veins.

“Enjoy the celebrations,” Aurora’s father says to the both of us, and then he looks in my direction—kindly, but still pointedly. "Tamlin."

I know what that look means. I know that he's noticed Aurora's close proximity to me, too. _Behave._

It isn't enough to make me laugh, but it _is_ enough to inspire amusement within me.

Aurora turns to me once her father is done, her fingers finding mine. "Come."

I tilt my head. "Where?"

Aurora nods towards one of the balconies, a mischievous look in her eye, and I'm following a moment later.

The sooner I get to have her all alone again, the better—and hopefully, some time soon, that’s all I’ll have forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt a bit uncertain as to whether this chapter was any good, so forgive me if it feels different—we aren’t used to seeing Tarora be openly loving towards each other without some pining thrown in! Something big is going to happen next chapter, so I hope you guys are ready...


	29. Aurora and Tamlin

> _AURORA..._

“Poor Auralis,” I murmur as Tamlin’s arms wrap around me from behind, a soft, lazy smile gracing my features as he presses a kiss to my head. “I almost feel bad for putting him in the fire.”

Tamlin lets out a low hum. “I don’t.”

I roll my eyes, gazing out to the fires that flicker in the villages below and beyond as we stand together on the balcony we have commandeered for ourselves. Our escape is hypocritical, of course, considering that I had mentioned Auralis' excessive amount of time spent with his soldier friends... but tonight, I don't care for the consequences. Tonight, all I care about is Tamlin, and enjoying myself, and toasting to whatever future the two of us might delve into together. And when my fingers had wrapped around his arm again when talking to my father, when I had been so close to him once more... I had no choice but to cash in my promise that he would be able to hold me again some time during the evening.

“Of course you don’t,” I respond. “You just want to hold me, and be gooey.”

Tamlin presses a kiss to my neck. I close my eyes at the feeling. He rumbles, “You don’t like me being gooey?”

My lips curve up into a grin, my neck tilting back to allow him more access. “I _love it_ when you’re gooey.”

Tamlin huffs against my neck, amused. “That’s what I thought.”

We stay like that for a while, but then a barking laugh from the doors has me spinning out of his grasp, my heart hammering, nervous at being caught in a position like this. But when I look, there’s no one there—it must have been from within the ballroom. And as much as I’m relieved, the hammering of my heart doesn’t go away.

I let out a breath. Tamlin glances in the direction I looked in, and when he looks back at me, there’s a faint smile on his features.

“You don’t need to worry. There are plenty of other people disappearing off to do the same as us tonight.”

“I know,” I respond, moving to lean against the balcony railings. A smile graces my features as I reach out to him, and he takes a step toward me. “It’s just new to me.”

“Mm,” Tamlin murmurs in understanding, and then he moves to lean against the balcony in the same way as myself.

Inside, I spy my father and Auralis, and it’s nice to see them, for once, looking happy and content. Auralis whispers something to my father, makes him laugh and lower his head; my father leans in closer, brushing his arm against his mate’s own. It’s as appropriate a touch that he can give in a setting such as this.

“We’ll be like that soon,” Tamlin says. “Like Auralis and your father.” 

I tilt my head, turning to look across at him. "Hm?"

"Married," Tamlin responds, and then—"well, more than married. Mated. You will be Lady of Spring, my mate, and some day..." Tamlin hesitates, "we will have our own children.” A brief pause, and then— “We can speak to your father, begin our lives together, live out the rest of our days in my court…”

My eyes are bright as I listen, as I envision our future together, as I picture helping him run his court and all the duties I might one day have. Rebuilding, bringing life to his court, encouraging trade and progress and love... it's all so magical. And the people I might meet, the...

_The places I won't see._

My eyes are bright—until they're not.

_The things I won't do._

Darker, darker, darker—

_The court I'll be confined to._

No light left now—

_The freedom I'll be giving up, the freedom I only just got back—_

Not even a smile, no hint of joy.

_The things I won't learn. The children I'll commit myself to when I'm barely an adult myself. The life I'll be committed to._

I realise something then that turns the joy inside of me into something wrong, something sick, something that pools inside of my stomach like a plague that cannot be stopped. I _want_ it to stop.

_Another cage, only this one is enforced with ribbon and lace._

I know where it comes from—that dread. That fear.

I turn to him, moving from the balcony, and his words might as well fade off into the night. Because at some point, I stop hearing them.

“Lady," I say slowly, as if tasting the name on my tongue. _No no no no no—_

My head is spinning, my vision clouded with stars that aren’t from the sparkling night sky above, and the frown that slowly slips onto Tamlin's face as he realises that I'm anything _other_ than ecstatic is the worst thing I've ever seen. He doesn’t say anything—he just moves away from the balcony just as I have, standing in front of me now. Slowly. As if bracing for me to say something. Listening, waiting, silently.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. 

Does he know what's happening?

He's certainly afraid of it: rejection. Abandonment.

_Mother above, it's me, it's me that's going to do this to him, it's me that's going to hurt him even more—_

One beat. Two beats. Five million beats could pass and they'd still all feel just as long, just as terrible—

"Wife—" I begin, and then stop myself. "I mean, mother to your... our..."

Tamlin is still. Deathly still. Even the colour has drained from his face.

Breathe.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But I can't.

_Lady of Spring._

_Wife,_ essentially—just more important.

_Bearer of children._

Imprisonment.

Imprisonment to one court, to one place, to duties I’m not at all prepared for. Sickness coils in my stomach at the very thought, spreading through my veins until I feel dizzy, until I’m forced to turn away from him and clench the railings of the balcony for support.

It’s not that I don’t want a life with Tamlin. I do, more than anything. But not yet, not—not something so _serious._ I want to learn about the world, to travel, to be free; when the time comes I want to give my all to his court, to the people within it, to improving upon it and helping the land and its citizens to heal, to live, to thrive—

How can I do that when I barely know myself? How can I give my all, help a land and its people heal, when I'm not even sure how to heal myself?

I close my eyes, my knuckles white around the railings.

"You don't want it," Tamlin manages to say.

His voice is low, so low that I know he’s trying to keep it all in, to keep calm, to not let every bit of fear inside of him take over.

The breath of air that leaves my lungs is so heavy, so ridden with distraught, that it's answer enough.

"Not yet," I whisper.

And he’s still deathly still, deathly silent, staring at me with this blank expression that is unreadable and untelling. Is that his heart I can hear racing, or is it mine?

We’re mates. It might as well be the same organ.

I want him—I want him so bad that it hurts, but I know that by refusing him he sees it as nothing or all. Now or never. He thinks in extremes, and that much I know from only knowing him for a few beautiful, wonderful weeks. He thinks with his heart so much that his head is almost non-existent.

But I’m not ready to give myself up to another set of chains. That’s what this is: agreement to this mating bond is another set of chains, of confinement, of anxiety deadset on returning.

Am I ready for this?

I know that the answer deep within me is no.

“Say something,” I whisper. “Something, Tamlin, please.”

But my mate just stares, _stares,_ and I fear then that I’ve broken him for good.

> _TAMLIN …_

It’s like Feyre all over again.

_Losing losing her losing again losing everything losing what I love losing everything when everything has just been given back to me—_

Why does this keep _happening?_

She’s saying something, something desperate, and yet I can’t hear her, not over the roaring in my ears and the thing in my head screaming, thrashing, willing to break free of a cage I’m not even sure how to break.

This time, I cannot stop the claws that slip with ease from my fingertips.

It’s not rage. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that it’s so, so much worse.

It’s not anger or venom or resentment. It’s…

Nothing. At least, I'll try to convince myself of that.

_It’s nothing even when my hands shake it’s nothing even as the colour fades from my face as the blood in my body feels like it’s rushing from my brain it’s nothing even as Aurora steps towards me with tear-filled eyes and clutches at my forearms with desperation pleading wishing for me to say anything—something—_

“You don’t want it,” I can only say. Again.

They’re the only words that slip from my lips. The only words that make sense.

“There’s so much that I need to see, Tamlin, so much that I—that I—"

I close my eyes, and the roaring of my blood takes over again. I don’t know if it’s the mating bond making me feel this way or whether it’s just _me,_ but her refusal is all I can focus on, all I can think of. If the idea of having somebody else walk away from me wasn’t so overwhelming, so _devastating,_ then I might be able to think that this isn’t the end, that we can work through it, that we can still be around one another despite it—

But we can’t. _I_ can’t.

She’ll walk away from me now and I’ll never see her again—that’s how it goes—that’s how it went—that’s how it is—she’s leaving me now and she’s leaving me for good— _o_ _ne day she'll realise the mating bond isn't for her one day she'll meet somebody different somebody like that male from the Winter Court with his curly hair and eyes like ice and no trauma no pain no suffering no staring into the distance and losing myself when it gets too much too much too much—_

_Nobody comes back nobody ever comes back Feyre didn’t come back not after it all ended not after the war—_

“Tamlin,” Aurora begs, her voice a mere murmur of noise against the thoughts in my head, and her fingers grow tighter on my forearms as she repeats my name: “ _Tamlin._ ”

I step back, shaking my head desperately. There’s no use in her talking to me—there’s no use in speaking to me when I’m already a ghost. There’s a lump in my throat that makes me feel sick, that makes me feel like I might vomit up all the emotion from this evening, that I might throw all my hopes and dreams away with one spew of my insides onto the floor.

It’s the final push. The final tower in a collapsing row of them.

I think that row of towers has been toppling over for a while now.

"You don't want it," I repeat, my tone guttural, the words coming from me like an upheaval of the lump that sits, suffocating, in my throat.

I stare for a moment longer— _memorise her face those freckles dotted across her nose those youthful cheeks and the golden waves of her hair those eyes filled with fear with concern with terror at what I might think what I might do what I might say—_

What I might _not_ say.

“Tamlin,” she says again—begging now, her eyes filled with tears. She takes a step forward.

I take a step back. My head shakes faster now, my eyes clenching shut. _I need the thoughts to stop—I need the roaring to stop—I need everything to stop—_

So I winnow away.

I winnow away and I don't look back.

Nothing—I want to be nothing.

And nothing doesn’t linger at parties where he’s not wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say is I'm sorry. Sort of.
> 
> Love you guys!
> 
> P.S. It WAS in the fanfic synopsis you can't say you didn't see it COMING


	30. Aurora

I stand silent and still on that balcony even as the air turns freezing, even as a chill shakes my bones, even when the music begins to die down and the chatter from inside gets less loud, less enthusiastic, when the scene around me becomes less vibrant.

And all the while my chest is tight and I _cannot_ breathe, cannot move from this balcony where I stand all alone, not even as I stand with my knuckles white on the railings and _beg_ for some sort of sign, some sort of release, some sort of way to try to calm the thoughts that are racing through my mind, the thoughts that are tearing at the excitement and joy I’ve felt all evening, the emotion that had seemed so blissful hours ago but now tears at my every being.

He disappeared. Vanished. And as I stare at the spot where he las was, I’m not sure if things will ever be the same again.

_I should go after him. I should apologise. We could work it out, we could fix it, we could—we could—_

_We could fix it somehow. Work through it. Just because I don't want to be his mate right this moment doesn't mean we can't be together, that we can't love one another, that we can't be there for each other—_

"Aurora, darling," a voice purrs from behind me, one that I know well. "What are you doing out here all alone?"

Rowena.

I close my eyes, an attempt to hide the tears. I turn away from her, moving to look out at the view from the balcony as I respond, “Go away, Rowena.”

But Rowena simply paces forwards—towards me. “Aurora, you look upset.” 

I don’t respond; instead, I clench my eyes shut tighter, my shoulders slack with a timeless tiredness that feels like it’s been forced into my bones ever since I was made Amarantha's prisoner, her toy, Under the Mountain. I don’t have the energy, not now, not when my bones throb with numbness, not when all that fills my body is despair— 

She continues, “I just came to see if I could be of any help.”

“What do you care?” I whisper.

 _I did this. I hurt him._ Sickness makes my stomach sway at the thought.

If I went to the Spring Court now, would he even want to see me?

Maybe the answer is no. Maybe—maybe tomorrow, or the day after, when he’s had the chance to calm down…

Rowena says, “You really _are_ upset. Sweetheart…” She croons, stepping closer, and when her hand moves to lie over mine I don’t have the energy to move it away. “What in the Mother’s holy name is wrong?”

I turn to her with nothing but emptiness in my gaze, and for a moment I’m stunned by her beauty: her raven hair cascades down her back in a half-up-half-down do, and her dress glitters blue like the night sky itself. Her cheeks shine like moonlight while the blue shadows around her eyes make them pop, and I wonder how it’s possible for anyone to be so beautiful and yet so foul.

I look away slowly afterwards, unable to muster up the energy to speak. I shake my head, sniffling, as I stare down at the darkness below—not at the fires flickering in the distance but down, down, where I wish I was and could always be. Darkness would be a welcome solace right now.

“I know we got off on the wrong foot,” Rowena continues softly, moving to look in the same direction as me—down, down, down, “but I am an advocate for females supporting females, you know.”

I close my eyes, clenching them shut. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Then what.”

“Kindness? A friend helping a friend?”

I bite back, “We’re not friends.”

“That’s just rude, Aurora,” Rowena frowns.

I shake my head. I take a breath and loose it again before I respond, “You couldn’t help me if you tried.”

Rowena’s eyes narrow on me, and her arms fold. “I am six hundred years old. I think I can help a youngling in need of some love advice.”

_In need of some love advice._

But I haven’t even— 

I didn’t mention it.

I turn to her, my eyes wide. “You were _watching_ me?”

Rowena’s arms unfold to splay in surrender. “My darling, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Your little tousle with love in the garden did not go unnoticed.”

My nose wrinkles in anger. “I don’t appreciate you spying on me.”

Rowena lets out a soft laugh, her brows rising, and her hands fall to her sides. “You think I was _spying_ on you? Darling, I have better things to do than that. Duties to tend to, people to see to…” she sighs. “Rumours simply travel fast in this court.”

My eyes clench shut again. _Tamlin’s Harlot._ It couldn’t be further from the truth now, and yet from what Rowena tells me now, I have no doubt that the rumours are only going to get worse.

“So I’ve heard,” I mumble, looking back at that darkness.

Rowena sighs, shaking her head. “Aurora, I’m just trying to help you.”

“When have you ever helped anybody?”

Rowena bites back, “You do not know me. All you know of me is from the rumours. You and I are in the same situation.”

I glance across at her, and apparently, she takes that as an opportunity to say more.

“Do you know what they say about me? They call me conniving, meddlesome, _venomous_ ," Rowena tells me, "and yet all I want to do is serve the Mother—to serve this court, to ensure that its holiness and gracefulness carries on as the decades do. It’s not my fault the rest of my sisters have ulterior motives. I simply live to serve the Mother, and yet those in this court speak of my lust for power—my lust for _more.”_

I look across at her then, biting the inside of my lip as I think. Could it be true? Certainly, I’ve heard such rumours; certainly, I believed them myself. But I’ve always been intimidated by confidence. Could that be part of it? Is this part of the reason I've believed the rumours about Rowena for so long? I always try to see the good in people, and maybe I just... haven't been given the chance to do that with Rowena yet.

Maybe… maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m just the same as the rest of the court, the ones who seem out to get me. If the same person saying these things about me is the same person saying these things about Rowena…

Then maybe she’s on my side after all.

And, to be truthful, I could use a friend with knowledge. Power. Somebody older. It could be good to get all of this out of my system—all this pain, all this torment.

I close my eyes, my shoulders slumping, and then— 

“Please don’t repeat this to anyone.”

Rowena inclines her head. “You have my word.”

I press my lips together, waiting, mustering up the courage. It’s not easy, not when every part of me screams to crawl into a hole and stay there, not when my body is raging at me for the decision I just made. I can’t tell whether it’s the mating bond—whether this counts as a rejection in the formal sense, the kind that often sees males go mad with grief—or… 

I close my eyes again. I don’t want to think about that. The very thought…

The thought that I could be the cause of that for Tamlin makes me sick. 

”Tamlin is my mate,” I say slowly, shakily, and then— “and I can’t… I can’t accept the bond.”

Rowena is quiet for a while, watching me, and then softly she asks, “Why not?”

I let out a breath as I push away from the balcony. Where to start? Where to begin? There is so much rushing through my mind; so many ifs, and buts, and whens and wheres and—and too much for me to handle. 

“Experience, for one,” I explain, distress all over my features as my hands splay before me. “I want to travel; I want to see the world, know the country I’m living in before I commit myself to one place. I want to travel and learn and make use of the freedom I have before it’s too late—before something else happens and there’s no going back from it. I want to _be_ there for a court if I’m its Lady, Rowena, and I can’t—I can’t let myself be confined to one court, to one place, to one—”

“To one male,” Rowena finishes, slow and calm.

I press my lips together, clenching my eyes shut afterwards. “No. Yes. I…”

Tamlin is the only male I could ever, ever want. But as much as I hate it…

I have to do this for me.

But we'll find a way through it. We have to. I’ll visit him soon enough, visit him and explain to him how I feel, what I want, what we could still _have—_

I’ll make him see that I don’t want to reject him. Or the mating bond.

I just can’t accept the timing.

“It’s alright,” Rowena utters, “I understand what you mean.” 

I open my eyes and look to her, my brown hues wide. My brows are coated in a relieved sort of surprise as I respond, “You do?”

Rowena nods. For a moment I merely stare at her, my lips pressed together, and then— 

“Do you want to know what I think?” She asks.

I hesitate, and then… 

I nod, suddenly surprise at how much I crave her guidance, her support. _Tell me what to do,_ I beg her. _Tell me what to think, what to say, how to fix this—_

Slowly, Rowena asks, “Do you really think he can wait?”

And then my stomach drops.

It's not what I want to hear. I look at her, searching desperately for any sign of elaboration, but for what seems like hours I find none. There’s only this look in her eye that screams pity, pity, pity— 

Rowena doesn’t think he can wait.

And she’s older. Wiser. She’s older than even Tamlin.

She’s seen High Lords before. Their wives—their mates.

_Do you really think he can wait?_

_I don’t know,_ a little voice in the back of my head whispers—whimpers.

It’s a tone I haven’t taken on since under _there._

“It’s best to move on,” Rowena says softly, gently. “I’ve seen High Lords over the centuries. I’ve seen plenty. They’re all the same—impatient, demanding, selfish. Your father, I suppose, is an exception to the rule, but the others..." She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. "Your Tamlin might not seem it now, not with you, but when it comes down to it… you’ve seen who he really is at his core, haven’t you?” 

I close my eyes.

“He’s not the male you think he is,” she tells me, and part of me knows it’s true—part of me knows that there is something dark in him, something dangerous, and yet I also know that those are the parts of him that I love, too. “The male you fool yourself into _thinking_ he is.”

I take a shuddering breath as I bend over the railings as if it’ll help me to breathe—as if it’ll help whatever chokes me from the inside to come out, whatever feels like it’s tethering, bordering on snapping, this time not in a good way. 

“Think about it,” Rowena croons. “He wants you now—he wants you now that you’re fresh and new and exciting. But what about in a few years’ time when you’ve popped out a few heirs? That’s if you’re lucky, of course—it might take far longer. And he might grow bored of you before that. That’s how all High Lords are; they think of power first, including heirs, and then getting their cocks wet second.” 

Rowena moves a wave of hair from my shoulder for it to fall down my back. I don’t move it—I don’t have the energy. I want to sleep. I want to slumber forever; I want to curl up into a ball and only wake once Tamlin is there to hold me.

“You, my dear,” Rowena purrs, closer now, closer, “should definitely look elsewhere when it comes to your one true love.”

She can't be right. She _can't_ be.

Not about Tamlin, at least. Not about him being dark, or terrible, or selfish. No—those things will never be true, not to me. Not when I’ve seen the best of him. Not when I understand that the worst situations can see us do the worst things. 

No—she's not right about Tamlin. 

But maybe she's right about _me._ Amarantha had been right, too. I'd tried not to believe it, tried not to let her words hurt, but... 

But they were true. _Stupid girl. Brat. Peregryn bitch._ She hisses them at me even now, her words venomous, corrupt, menacing.

Who am I really? Who am I to think myself a worthy mate to a High Lord? Aurora Morningsworn, with her scarred wings and that naivety that leads her to the dead end she stews in now; Aurora, the girl that shines nowhere near as bright as Rowena, or Feyre, or anyone who might come into Tamlin's life in the future; Aurora, who knows nothing except despair and death and ruin and misery; Aurora, who wants to travel and explore the world but doesn’t know _where_ to start, how to begin, especially not when she's afraid of what awaits her out there.

I let out a shuddering sob, one that makes my knees buckle and hit the stone of the balcony hard. The cool thudding pain in my knees is a temporary relief, a temporary solace when dealing with the pain in my chest, in my veins, in my heart. I’m ruined—I’m stupid and ruined and the only person I have to blame is myself, myself myself myself, my _stupid_ self—

Rowena kneels to my level, her arms wrapping around me like a shroud of midnight, and I know then that I never want to leave the safety of it. 

For once, the darkness is easier than the light.


	31. Aurora

I don't see Tamlin for days, even as they begin to blend into weeks.

With every passing day, I feel a little more sick. I don't know if it's the mating bond or just _me,_ or perhaps it's the guilt that is by now carved into my very bones, but I know that with every day I spend apart from him—every day I have to share the knowledge that _I'm_ the one who did this, that _I'm_ the worst person in the world—it gets worse. Harder to live. It's like my body is calling to him and yet there's no one there, nobody on the other end, nobody to run to when the despair is too much—

Sometimes, I wonder if Tamlin feels the same. I never ask, though.

It's not like we send letters anymore.

Sometimes I try to write to him. Every time, the dread becomes too much. It makes me feel dizzy, makes me feel like I'm going to be sick. Every time I try to write to him, I close my eyes; every time I try to write to him, I lower my quill.

And each time when the dizziness gets too much and the pounding in my head takes over, I have to lie down.

I can't sleep, though. Of course not. The guilt eats away at me even in the darkness.

And if this is what being apart from him is doing to _me,_ if this is what I've become...

I'm afraid for what _he's_ become.

Sickness spreads within me now as I sit quietly on my balcony, a lunch spread out in front of me—tea, scones, little biscuits and sandwiches. It wasn’t arranged by me, not when I barely eat these days; not when my clothes seem a little looser already, not when my dresses just don’t bring me the same joy.

No—Rowena is the one who picks my dresses. Rowena makes me food. Rowena always knows what to say; Rowena always know what I need, how I feel, what I'm thinking and what to think.

“Aurora, darling,” she murmurs, the dark blue of her skirts swishing against the floors of my rooms as she makes her way back over to our table, “are you feeling sick again?”

Slowly, I nod, my attention averting to the view from the balcony.

“You're awfully pale," Rowena croons. "Should I fetch the healer?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

Rowena nods and takes her seat, and in no time she’s slicing open a scone to butter it with an ornate bronze knife. She’s always by my side these days. Even as more rumours spread, she's there; even while people whisper as I pass, Rowena’s always there.

Some days, it feels like Rowena is all that I have left.

 _Aurora has turned dark under Tamlin's influence,_ they whisper. _You saw how she was at the ball—They're plotting against the Night Court together—You know Lucien Vanserra spends time with both Night and Spring—Even Lord Auralis himself is in on it—He’s keeping their unions out of the private eye now that the rumours have spread._

 _Nothing goes unseen in these corridors,_ they scream.

“Do you think I should write to him?” I near-whisper, my words a little unclear as I speak them to the wind.

Rowena, beside me, goes still. The coarse sound of her knife against the bread stops, and for a moment, only the wind and the chirping of birds sounds around us. For a few passing seconds it is still and peaceful, and if I close my eyes, I can imagine I'm in the Spring Court. But we've talked about this before, countless times when I'm feeling courageous, defiant, like I want to fight for what I love—the male I love... and every time, Rowena's answer is the same.

Rowena shakes her head as she responds, “We’ve discussed this.”

I lower my gaze, staring at the display of food and drink around us—all of it completely unappetizing. “I know.” 

She says the same thing: _he’s not worth it, he’ll hurt you in the end, look at what he did to Feyre and how he locked her up. Look at what he’s truly like, all the way deep down in that animalistic little heart of his. He wants you as a possession—a possession, Aurora, a pretty little thing to birth pretty little children._

That doesn't bother me as much as the rest of it.

_Really, Aurora, who are you to march in there demanding he compromise for you? As much as I understand your plight, he is a High Lord. He shouldn't have to wait for anything. He is power, after all, and a compromise... oh, sweetheart. His court is already weak enough as is. Do you really want to be the catalyst that sees it destroyed for good?_

_Where would Spring come from then?_

_Without Calanmai, what sort of harvests would we sow?_

My shoulders slump at the very memory. At the very sound of her voice in my head. 

She's right.

“You should forget about him,” Rowena sighs boredly, lowering her butter knife, and when her hand reaches across to cover mine, her rings are cold against my fingers. “All High Lords think about one thing and one thing alone: power. It’s like I said—he’d use you for heirs and then dispose of you when you see fit. Have you seen Lord Beron’s wife?”

I wince. I’ve seen the Lady of Autumn—or rather, I've seen the emptiness in her gaze. The way she stares, and stares, and sometimes flinches when Beron comes too close or says something she doesn't like. I don’t want to be like that.

 _Aren’t you already half way there?_ a voice croons.

I know the voice is right.

“Mm,” Rowena hums, taking a sip of tea, “that’s what I thought.”

She smiles sweetly at me, and I try my hardest to replicate it.

For a while we merely sit together in silence, although sometimes Rowena breaks it to make conversation; to moan, to bitch, to gossip. I can’t tell whether it’s nice to be included in the courtly games or not, not when the very rumours Rowena talks about are the kind that I’ve been subject to myself; the kind that are getting so serious that they worry my father. In fact, his stress levels are getting worse and worse, more and more visible. 

Because these rumours are the serious kind—the kind that worries the Night Court.

I’m drawn from my thoughts when the doors to my chambers open, Aidos entering through them. His gaze rakes slowly over me, softly, concern layered within them, and when he looks at Rowena…

Nothing but bitterness and distaste.

"Aurora,” Aidos greets me with a nod, “your father wants to see you."

My eyes glaze over him briefly; his ivory-and-gold armour, the white of his hair, the stern look in his eye. We haven't talked since our conversation in the gardens on the night of the party, and part of that is just because I don't have the energy. But he has held me a few times, held me when I needed it the most, just like he used to. Just like when he used to curl up on my bed with me and wait for me to fall back to sleep after a night in which I woke up screaming.

I don't know why he doesn't like Rowena. And I don't care.

"Why?" I ask.

Aidos shrugs. "Not my place to ask."

"In future, ask."

His head tilts upwards as his shoulders straighten, but he says nothing.

I stand—weakly, slowly, and then I turn to Rowena. "I'll see you later."

"Will I be seeing you this afternoon?” Rowena smiles up at me.

I shrug. “If you want.”

Rowena stands, a slight furrow on her brows as she says, “Of course I want to see you, sweetling.” She approaches me, her jewellery jingling with every move, and then her arms wrap around me tight. “I care for you.”

I know she does. She’s always around—always near. If she’s not doing that to care for me, then what else could it be? I don’t really put much thought into Rowena’s presence around me, not when I barely have the energy to put thought into anything else, but… her having anything _other_ than good intentions has never even crossed my mind. And why should it? All she’s done is support me—make it easier to just _exist,_ not to live. 

I embrace her back weakly in return, and then I step away with a slight nod. "Make sure Margie doesn't get out when you leave.”

I have no concerns about leaving her in my room, although Aidos eyes her suspiciously as the doors shut behind me. Aidos twists the knob until the click of the door sounds, and then we’re walking to our destination. I take one step at a time without a care in the world for what I’m doing or where I’m going or what it might mean—not on my part, anyway.

Because Aidos… 

There’s tension in his shoulders. In his clenched jaw. In the way he walks. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me.

"Do you have something to say to me?" I ask quietly, our footsteps echoing off the pinkish stone that the Dawn Palace hallways are made up of.

Aidos keeps staring right ahead as we walk, expressionless aside from that look in his eye. "No."

I respond not unkindly, "You're upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You _seem_ upset, Aidos.”

A noise of annoyance slips from Aidos’ lips, and he finally gives in when he says, "Of course I'm upset."

"Why?"

All of a sudden he stops, our footsteps fading off until all that lingers between us is the whistle of the wind from the archways which line the halls, and then— 

"Don't you see what she's doing to you?" He hisses.

I stare back at him, blank—mostly because I’m not sure what he means, but also because I don’t care. I don’t care for anger, or misery, or… whatever strong emotion he might muster up inside of himself. These days, I don’t have the energy to feel or take note of anything other than the swarm of thoughts in my head and the dizziness that heats the same space. Sometimes I have the space to let my impatience get the best of me; sometimes I snap at people because I’m tired or don’t have the energy and just want them to leave me alone. But whatever Aidos is thinking, feeling…

I don’t have the energy to match it.

"You look like a ghost," Aidos says, his voice a near whisper, and it's filled with emotion I haven't heard from him in a long time. "When was the last time you ate?"

I shrug, averting my gaze to the yellowish hue of the sky outside. If I had the strength to let my wings carry me away, I might fly until I couldn’t any more.

Aidos responds, his voice shaky, "You don't care?"

I’m still not looking at him when I respond, "Rowena's not doing anything to me."

"You keep defending the wrong people, Aurora," Aidos hisses, and then he starts walking again—faster than before, and angrier, too.

I follow without a word, and as we near my father’s rooms, a murmur of voices greets my ears—hushed, as if nobody is meant to hear the conversation but the two speaking it.

"You wanted to tell her," I hear my father say from within.

"Not now," Auralis murmurs, hushed. "Not with all these rumours. She has enough going on."

I might feel terrible for eavesdropping if Aidos hadn’t knocked a moment later, the doors opening in the seconds which follow. Aidos nods to my father; Thesan greets him with one of his own, but Auralis merely glances over Aidos and then looks at me.

"Tell me what?" I ask, stepping across the threshold of the room.

The tension that suddenly lines Auralis’ body is so severe that I’m instilled with just a hint of curiosity. A time ago I might have wanted to know more about the look in his eye, might have asked if he was alright, but now... now, I just don't care. My father, on the other hand, merely glances between myself and Auralis, and then he greets me with a smile. 

"Aurora," Thesan gestures to the seating area spread out in front of us, "come sit."

I make my way across the room and slump into my seat; behind me, I hear Aidos leave the room, likely with another bow of his head in Auralis’ direction. Thesan slides into the seat beside me and begins pouring me a cup of lemon tea, the kind that I know is Auralis’ favourite.

I much prefer peach, but at least this gives me something to do with my hands. Papa passes me a cup and I flash him a small, unenthusiastic smile in response. 

"How has your week been?" Father asks me.

“Good,” I respond.

Thesan and Auralis exchange a worried glance.

It hasn’t been good, but then again, my weeks aren’t really anything special these days. I don’t send Tamlin letters—I haven’t seen Lucien since the party, when he’d asked where Tamlin was and I’d told him, told him everything between shaky breaths, when his eyes had widened and he’d winnowed out of there with a look of panic on his face that I hadn’t seen before. And although I’m exceeding expectations in my lessons again, I feel as if I’ve outgrown them in the same way that I outgrew my first dress for the ball.

There’s a weary, sleepless thing deep within my bones, a thing that feels far more ancient than the form I currently inhibit.

"That doesn't sound very convincing, dove," Auralis says softly.

I close my eyes. "Why do you even care for the small talk?" I demand, looking between the both of them now. "We only ever meet when we want to discuss something, so you might as well get on with it."

Thesan blinks. "Aurora, I don't appreciate your tone.”

I shake my head and bring my cup of tea to my lips, sitting back in my chair. Auralis sucks in a breath and averts his gaze, and beside me, my father’s gaze lingers on me for a while before he speaks—slowly, quietly. 

"The Night Court has invited us to a peace gathering in a few days' time," Thesan says, "due to the troubling rumours spreading within our court."

And that’s when my stomach drops. 

The Night Court. The place that gave Amarantha the inspiration for Under the Mountain. The… High Lord of the Night Court, the male who had wormed himself into my head, torn at my most precious memories, who had skewed them so that I hardly remembered what was real of my childhood and what wasn’t— 

"Why do these rumours even have substance?" I hear Auralis ask, his voice a mere echo as my hearing fizzles in and out—as I try my best to stay calm, even when my body doesn’t really feel like my own. 

"Because of me," I respond breathlessly, trying desperately to use my words to tether me to consciousness, and to my surprise, it works. I swallow thickly before I manage to spit out, "because Tamlin and I are—were…” Deep breaths, deep breaths, “close."

The gaze Auralis fixes me with is hard to read, but it's certainly not one of happiness. I blink away the stars in my eyes as one of my hands curls around the arm of my chair, and with the other, I place the cup down on the table—down, so that if everything fades to black, I won’t get tea all over myself. So that Rowena won’t be angry that I ruined the pretty little dress she chose for me today. 

"Regardless," Thesan continues slowly, almost warily, as if he’s sat beside an unstable crate of explosives, "we will attend, and we will therefore reassure them that everything is fine."

"Must _I_ attend?" I manage to ask, my breath no more than a whisper.

"Yes."

“No.”

“Aurora—”

“Please.”

The very thought of the relationship the Night Court’s High Lady has to Tamlin, how she’ll judge me, how her whole court will _laugh_ at me, mock me— 

"Because your name has been spread around the court in such extremes,” Thesan says softly, “you must attend, too. We have to show Rhys—one of our closest allies—that we mean no harm."

I swallow down a lump in my throat that feels suspiciously like vomit. “You don’t understand—”

Auralis is the one who leans towards me now, placing his hand over mine. “I will be there with you. Nothing will happen to you. You could even bring Cora, if you like.”

I pull my hand away harshly, and I cannot help the snarl that slips from my lips when I respond, “Get _off_ me.”

Auralis blinks, his shoulders straightening, and the shock—and hurt—that appears on his features might hurt me, too, if I had anything left in my heart.

Auralis responds, quietly and hesitantly this time, “Aurora, I’m just trying to—”

“You can’t help me. Not unless you let me stay here.”

Auralis looks to Thesan, a sort of regretful look in his eye, but Thesan merely glances at him and then looks back at me. I wonder what they're saying to one another—what they're thinking, what they can communicate to one another without having to speak. Apparently, that's what the mating bond is like: a quiet nonverbal connection between two parties.

Not that I would know.

“As much as I understand your concern,” Thesan says firmly, “I do not appreciate the way you are speaking to Auralis."

I turn to look at him then, my eyes wide—wide with not anger but fear, a fear deep inside of me, one that was instilled Under the Mountain. "I don't appreciate being forced to go to a place I don't want to visit; a place which Amarantha modelled Under the Mountain after."

Auralis winces. Thesan's nostrils flare, and I wonder whether his annoyance at me really is so strong or whether it’s the mating bond making him so defensive. Certainly, he’s never acted like this with me before. Or perhaps it’s the stress—stress from the rumours, the tension it’s creating with the Night Court… 

“I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was necessary,” my father says.

And I know then that there’s no escaping it.

I close my eyes, slumping deeper into my chair, and as my father and Auralis continue to speak around me—about the visit, the technicalities, the things we should and shouldn’t do—I can feel that little bit of light that was left in me dying, snuffing… gone.


	32. Aidos

Rowena enters Aurora's rooms again later that afternoon.

The sight makes my jaw clench. In, out, in, out—every day it’s the same, and every day I watch a little more of Aurora fade away. If I hadn’t heard from Cora that Aurora had rejected the mating bond, if I hadn’t understood the loss of losing a mate myself, then I might suspect that the High Priestess was doing something deeper, darker, to the youngling I care so much for. And yet…

I know the pain of losing a mate, even if it isn’t exactly the same. Even if Aurora had rejected hers and I’d lost Apollo years ago. It doesn’t matter.

It’s the reason why I’ve been there for her, silent but present. It’s the reason why I hold her in the night, sometimes, when she can’t sleep—when she closes her eyes and tries to lull her breathing to a steady pace to convince me that she’s finally fallen into that deep slumber. But I know she’s pretending, likely out of guilt at keeping me there. I’ve seen her sleep soundly before, and what she puts on so that I’ll leave…

It’s different. And disturbing. And worrying.

Things still linger unsaid between us ever since the ball, but every time I think I might talk to her about it, the timing seems off. And as much as I want to clear the air, to tell her just how much I care for her, to tell her that no matter what I’ll _always_ want her, desire her... 

I can’t speak the words.

And with Rowena around, it’s impossible to think of anything other than my hatred for her. I’d rather Aurora be spending her time with Tamlin than Rowena—Tamlin, that arrogant High Lord who thinks he can claim a stake to whoever and whatever he wants. Rowena is nothing but conniving, and somehow, Aurora doesn’t see that. But I do.

I’ve seen the way she looks at Aurora, hungry and devious when Aurora’s slender back is turned; I’ve seen the way she forces a smile onto her lips and bats her eyelashes at Aurora a second later. And I’ve seen the way those two things alone manage to get Thesan’s daughter to come at her every beck and call.

And this time when Rowena leaves Aurora's rooms, bats her pretty little lashes at me, I... 

I follow her.

I follow her before I even know my feet are moving, follow her before I can stop them—before I can think about leaving Aurora’s rooms unguarded. Call it a hunch, an inkling, a suspicion that speaks to a deeper part of my brain, but I follow her. 

It's not my place to do so. And yet I do.

And as she delves into the quieter parts of the castle, the hallways that only a few traverse, the hallways which are used only by souls who wish to remain in the dark rather than the glistening light that spills in through the archways of the Dawn Palace… 

I keep my footsteps quiet, near-silent.

And when a dark figure appears at the other end of the hallway, they don’t see me. They don’t hear me. Not with my body pressed against an alcove in the wall, and certainly not with my wings folded neatly behind me.

And from here, I can hear everything.

I still don’t know what I’m expecting; I still don’t know why I followed Rowena in the first place. For all I know, this could just be her nightly suitor, and I might be about to witness some sort of unknowing public display of affection. But something in me, that gut feeling I always know is right, tells me that something else is going on here—and that following her tonight is important. 

And as a male who thinks with his heart rather than his head, I’m going to listen to my heart.

“Mistress,” the voice greets Rowena—deep and rich. I don’t recognise it; if only I could get a glimpse of his face… 

“Sabah,” Rowena purrs, “how lovely of you to meet me on such short notice.”

Sabah—one of Rowena’s most loyal followers. I've met him a few times, but beyond admiring his good looks—cropped dark hair, his rich black skin—I haven't paid any attention to him. A gossip with too much money, he's not really my type of person—in _every_ sense of the word.

Sabah responds, “I am but your humble servant.”

“How sweet,” Rowena croons. “Now, be a good boy and get this done, hm?”

She must hand him something—something like parchment, because I can hear the brush of it against fingers, the crunch of it as Sabah shoves it into his robes.

“Is there anything else I should know?” He asks.

“Just make sure you get it done," Rowena hisses. "I want the palace to know by sundown."

I frown. _I want the palace to know by sundown._ Know what?

“Mistress,” Sabah responds affirmatively.

“Once I’m done with that naive little brat, meet me in the tower. Your reward will await you.”

 _Naive little brat._ Surely she can’t mean— 

My brows furrow. She definitely means Aurora. Who else?

Whatever Rowena is doing, I’m certain Aurora knows nothing of it. She’s too naive; too trusting. A pawn. That’s what Aurora is—that’s what I’ve always wanted to keep her from being. I know in that moment that Rowena is using Aurora's grief to exploit her, to manipulate her, although I have no idea to what end. But whatever is going on here…

I have to figure it out. Not as a guard, not as a soldier, but as a friend. And maybe, just maybe, when I prove to Aurora that I have her best interests at heart, that Rowena was never to be trusted in the first place... 

Maybe I'll finally have a chance with her.

I wait until they disappear from the hallway; I wait until their footsteps have long since echoed away, and then…

I don't go to Auralis, not with something he'll likely shrug off. No—without any proof, he won’t believe that someone with as much power as Rowena would do anything other than serve the High Lord loyally. It's a lesson I learned from my youth, from years serving under Auralis' command. Proof first, accusations later.

So instead, I go to Cora. 

I memorise every little detail as I drop from one of the archways and soar up into the heavens and in the direction of Cora’s rooms; I memorise every bit of their conversation, every movement, every sound. I hardly know what to think, what to feel, how to process the information gathered from the scene I've just witnessed. It's so vague, so curious, and yet... I know something is wrong. I know something has to be done.

At least we have a lead—it will be easy to get information out of Sabah when the time comes. And if anyone can figure this out, it's the two of us. Because although there are times in which we don’t get along, times in which the two of us are barely able to stand one another, there is one thing we have in common.

And that’s our dedication to protecting Aurora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept going back to this chapter in an attempt to add more character voice to show more of what Aidos is thinking, but honestly, that's a problem merely because of the fact that the two thoughts running through Aidos' brain at any time are AURORA and FOOD. For this reason I'm sorry if this chapter felt a little different <3 Aidos doesn't have a lot of big brain power and that's the truth of it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed our first chapter from Aidos' POV regardless! I've got a surprise for you guys tomorrow ;)


	33. Morrigan

Cora's room is always excessively cluttered.

I'm not one to judge. My room isn't always pristine—usually, there's all sorts of clothes lying around, as well as books upon books, jewellery bits and bobs strewn about the room. It’s no excuse, especially considering that most of it would only take a moment to put away, and most of the time I like to call it an organised mess. At least I know where everything is. But Cora...

Armour, weapons, books, boots; _dirty_ boots—they're everywhere. Piles upon piles of it, all pushed aside in an attempt to seem neat. For me. Just because I’m visiting. 

And I adore her for it.

"Cora," I sigh, long since having lay flat on her bed, "how long are you going to be in there?"

"Don't rush me, Mor," she grumbles in response from the bathroom, "or I'll take all this off and you'll have to live knowing that you never got to see me in this... _shit._ "

I raise my brows, amusement lining my lips as I sit up to look in the direction of the bathroom door. "So it's clothing?"

"Maybe."

"Lingerie?"

"Mor, it's supposed to be a surprise."

"So it _is_ lingerie. You know, I—”

The door swings open, a flash of red on bronzed skin, and… 

Cora is very, very much wearing lingerie.

I grin at her, my eyes raking over her body. "You wore red."

“It’s your favourite colour,” Cora responds. To my pleasant surprise, her cheeks are coated with an unfamiliar flush of heat.

I’m not used to seeing her like this, it’s true. And yet…

My eyes darken as I take her in: the dark hair that falls down her back, messy from where she’d taken it out of the bun it had been in earlier; her muscular arms, that brown skin that sings of Dawn Court blood, those almond-shaped green eyes… 

“Come here,” I tell her, and she does.

She paces forward with that same sort of hungry look in her eye, the look that speaks of a particular mood, a particular moment; a look that speaks _volumes_ of what will happen next. And with the sway of her hips, the curve of her breasts, the perfect form in her muscles—

My heart hammers in my chest like a maiden on her wedding night.

In a sense, although I’ve done this countless times before with Cora, this is exactly the same feeling. I’ve never been nervous like this with males before, perhaps because it’s so easy to impress them—or perhaps because I simply don’t _care_ as much _._ But with females, with Cora specifically…

These nights I steal from her mean more to me than I can say. More than I know how to _show._ And between us it’s not easy, not when she can never know of Velaris and not when her allegiance lies with the Dawn Court, to a female rumoured to be so close to Tamlin, our enemy, but… 

But for now, it’s perfect.

Rita’s is good for one thing and one thing only—one type of _person,_ one type of union _._ But Cora…

As she crosses the room, lowers herself to me and presses her lips to mine, she takes my breath away.

And none of the others have been able to do that.

I let out a noise of approval as her fingers find my waist, firm despite the flimsy, girlish lingerie she wears; firm like a soldier’s touch, like the touch that comforts me, appeals to the girl inside of me that has suffered so much hurt, so much pain, so much trauma—

Cora. Cora. Cora.

And although I’ve long since grown beyond needing protecting, Cora’s embrace is a welcome distraction from how it so often haunts me; a welcome escape from the troubles in the Night Court, from the discourse brewing on the mainland in regards to the human realms. And as we kiss and laugh and bask in one another’s presence, I can’t help but appreciate just what she’s wearing, the effort she put in for me—because that is _very_ much a welcome distraction. 

“You,” I murmur against her lips, “should really wear stuff like this more often.”

Cora grins against my own. “If it excites you this much, I might have to.”

She pushes me down on the bed with playful force, the kind that she knows excites me the most, the kind that has me fighting for dominance half way through, and— 

“Cora!” An irritated voice sounds from the hallway, serious and very much meaning business, and then— 

A knock after. Firm and hard. And another. _Thud thud thud._

I hiss, wrinkling my nose in annoyance, and when I sit up Cora rolls off me with an annoyed murmur of her own.

“Who _is_ that?” I whisper to her, hoping dearly that he can’t hear us through the walls.

“An idiot, that’s who,” Cora responds. She shakes her head and stands, grabbing a dressing gown from the end of the four-poster bed.

“Cora!” The voice insists, and when she doesn’t respond— “I can hear you in there. Open up.”

“I’m _coming,_ Aidos,” she insists, her voice louder this time. “Just give me a second!”

I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. “And what am _I_ supposed to do?” I hiss at her, incredulous.

Cora glances around the room, mainly to the balcony and then to the bathroom, and merely shoots me a look that says _sorry_ as her fingers wrap around the glass knob of the door. I sigh, and I just make it in time to close myself in the bathroom before Cora opens the door in front of her.

I lean against the back of the bathroom door and try to stay as still as possible. It’s not like we’re sneaking around—we just haven’t made anything public yet. I don’t even know _what_ we are, and I don’t really want to have that conversation… not when it’ll take all the fun out of whatever _this_ is. And with the rumours spreading around our respective courts, the last thing we need is to be seen together.

Rhysand doesn’t know I’m here, and as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t _need_ to know. And if Azriel knows anything…

Well, he hasn’t mentioned it.

And as much as I’m frustrated at this male’s arrival, it’s a welcome distraction when he speaks and I can focus on something _other_ than my thoughts. He demands, “You got someone in here with you?”

“I did,” Cora grumbles, “before you scared them away. What’s wrong with you?” She demands. “Why are you even—hey!”

I spin slowly and yet somewhat urgently, protectively, so that I can watch the events from Cora’s rooms from the crack in the door, and I’m curious to find that the male—Peregryn, the same sort of build as Cassian—has pushed past Cora as if she weighs nothing at at all. He spins to look at her, glancing about the room, and he seems to settle on the balcony before he looks back at Cora.

He says, “I have news.”

“That’s too bad. I’m busy. Get out.”

“It’s _important._ ”

“And so is my business in this room. Alone. Get out, Aidos.”

Aidos. I haven’t heard the name before, but I _have_ heard Cora complaining about an ‘sensitive idiot Peregryn male’ before. I have no doubt this is the same guard she works with to protect the youngling Aurora.

“From the scent of you, there isn’t much you can do on your own in here anymore. Unless it’s with your fingers. So you might as well—”

Crash. A goblet thrown from Cora’s direction, one that clatters to the floor—and one that Aidos very much deserves being thrown at him. Part of me thinks Aidos and Cassian might get along—the other part of me thinks they might tear each other apart.

“You’re a scoundrel, Aidos. Now get out.”

“It’s about Aurora—about Rowena,” he insists. “I heard her talking about Aurora to one of her minions. I think… I think she might be using her for something bad, Cora.”

Quiet. Silence. It’s a wonder they can’t hear the way my heart beats up at the name: Rowena, the very female that’s been spreading these rumours throughout the Dawn Court. It’s not uncommon for High Priestesses to be meddlesome, and Azriel might have overlooked the rumours had it not been for Aurora and Tamlin’s relationship being true.

Cora doesn’t know, of course, and I haven’t told her—even despite the fact that she’s spoken about how worried she is about Aurora. Even despite the fact that I can see how it bothers her.

Because as much as I care for her, I cannot breach the Inner Circle’s trust like that. I can’t breach _Az’s_ trust like that.

Stars above, there’s still too much that lingers between us. I don’t need to add anything more to that.

Cora continues, “What sort of thing?”

Aidos shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I’m gonna figure it out.”

Cora sounds exasperated when she says, “Aidos—”

“You’re not in on this?”

“You haven’t even told me what _this_ is.”

“I’m going after Sabah,” Aidos explains. “See if he’ll tell me anything.”

Cora sighs, closing her eyes. “And what exactly did Rowena say?”

“She called her a little brat,” Aidos answers. “Gave Sabah something right after Aurora came back from her meeting with Thesan and Auralis. I’ve got no doubt that whatever they discussed in that meeting, it’s in that letter.”

Auralis—the rumours have mentioned him, too. Cora’s mostly spoken of him being a good male, although he’s stricter with her than he is with most other soldiers. But despite Cora’s beliefs, and as much as I’d love to rely on them alone, there’s a certain degree of irresponsibility in leaving the rest of the rumours surrounding this whole messy situation untouched. 

And the rumours about Aurora…

I trust Cora when she says that Aurora is gentle, and kind, and loving. But I’ve seen what Tamlin’s influence had done to Feyre—how it had almost torn her apart. And while I believe her, there is nothing I will cast aside completely. 

“Aidos,” Cora continues, “that doesn’t mean anything besides the fact that she’s a backstabbing bitch.”

_If only you knew, Cora—if only I could tell you…_

“You don’t think we should get to the bottom of this?”

“Of course I do. But—”

“But?” Aidos interrupts, his tone more incredulous—disbelieving—than Cora’s own.

“But Rowena’s a High Priestess. And without any proof, she’s virtually untouchable.”

Aidos responds, “So join me in getting it.”

For a moment, Cora is quiet. And then she nods, something I don’t quite catch with my focus on Aidos, but something in the male shifts—relief, perhaps, or maybe even determination. I don’t know him well enough to understand. 

“Alright,” Cora agrees. “But tomorrow. At dawn.”

Aidos opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, his jaw clenches. 

“Forget it,” he growls. “I’ll do it on my own.”

“Aidos, don’t be a—”

“You’re really showing where your loyalties lie, Cora,” Aidos says, although I can’t see him—not now, not when he’s moved closer to the door. “For all we know Rowena could be poisoning her mind, and you want to sit here and do nothing.”

The door slams shut before Cora can make up a response, and I loose a breath afterwards. There’s a few seconds of silence as the tension in the room dissipates, leaving only an awkward sort of sadness in its wake—the kind that leaves the room emptier than before. 

“You can come out now, Mor,” Cora mumbles, although the teasing nature from before has long vanished.

Perhaps I should feel bad about being here. Perhaps a small part of me does, especially given that I know far more than Cora right now. I know how much she cares for Aurora—Aurora is the _only_ person she cares for, and I don’t like to assume as to how she might feel about me. Truthfully, how close they are makes me jealous sometimes, and yet…

I understand caring for someone deep enough that it reaches bounds far beyond romantic. I have to remind myself of that.

And so slowly, slowly, I push the bathroom door open, my expression understanding as my gaze meets Cora’s once more. “If me being here is an inconvenience—“

Cora shakes her head. “Mor, there isn’t any situation where you’re an inconvenience.”

And I won’t lie and say that my heart doesn’t flutter at that.

I smile at her as I take a few steps forward, my fingers finding her jaw now—a gentle touch as I tilt her head upwards. “I know you care for her.”

Cora nods, but she says nothing.

“So if you want to go with him—”

“I don’t,” she responds softly. “Not tonight. I’ll speak to him tomorrow, because there’s nothing we can do tonight that we can’t do then. Tonight…” Cora’s lips press together. “Is it so bad that I want it to be just us?”

I don’t have to read between the lines to know what she means; to know that we might not be able to be like this forever. We might not be able to be so close. Not with the rumours spreading around the courts.

Because things are getting serious now… and the peace gathering that Rhysand invited Thesan and his closest companions to proves it.

Slowly, a small smile slips onto my lips. “That was pretty mushy, C. Especially for you.”

She lets out a huff of laughter. “You make it easy to be mushy.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That was even mushier.”

Cora lets out another laugh as her lips meet mine, and as we tumble into bed once more, I don’t blame her for wanting an escape from the politics, the courtly drama, the games.

Because that’s what I want, too.

And Cora… 

Despite our relationship putting the two of us in the thick of it, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


	34. Aurora

The travelling flower festival, held just a village away, is just about the only thing I’ve managed to gather up the motivation to dress for in days.

If there’s one thing that always brings a smile to my face, it’s nature. Peaches, flowers, trees—it’s all the same to me. All beautiful. And as much as the thought of just _where_ these flowers have come from unsettles me—the Spring Court, in majority—it’s… a relief to get out of the palace. To have something to look forward to. To look foward in excitement.

It’s a muted sort of excitement, of course, but… it’s there. And not even Rowena as she stands before me, humming as she picks a dress for me today, can dampen that. The thought of being surrounded by flowers, by the smell of them, by buzzing bees… oh, it sings of a peace I have long unknowingly craved.

“We _must_ sort out your wardrobe at some point,” Rowena sighs, the hangers making a sharp scratching noise as she slides them across the pole. I merely watch her, perched on the end of my bed, and I wonder just what gown she might pick when— “How about this one?” 

She twirls around to show me the dress in her hands, and—

Perhaps I’d thought too soon.

The sight of the dress’ mint green colour makes me feel sick. Not because of the colour, but because of what it represents: Spring, with its floral patterns in gold thread at the bottom, a tangle of elegant thorns and roses. It’s a reminder of Tamlin’s court, of all the guilt that’s building up inside of me by the day; the guilt that, in Tamlin’s case, probably takes the form of a bone-crushing dread— 

I’m still staring at it when I demand, “No.”

Rowena blinks innocently. “No?”

“Put it away. Pick another one.”

“Why?”

“I said _put it away,_ ” I hiss.

I don’t have the patience for this. Not with my lack of sleep; not with my lack of a will to live. Rowena’s brows raise as if offended by my tone, and she hesitates a moment before she huffs and places the hanger back in the closet. 

“Really, Aurora, you need not be so rude.”

I close my eyes and a shake of my head follows. Maybe she’s right—maybe that _was_ rude. But sometimes she’s so insistent, so overbearing, and if I didn’t know better I might say that she does it on purpose. But I do know better. Rowena has been here for me when I needed somebody the most, and she said it herself: she’s never really had a real friend before. For that reason, I know that she has my best interests at heart—that she’s _doing_ her best. 

“Sorry. I can’t…” I suck in a breath. “Lack of sleep makes me… irritable.”

“Yes, well,” Rowena quips snappily, “there are many who lack in that department also, and there are many who know very well to keep their emotions in check regardless. Perhaps it’s a lesson you ought to learn.”

Rowena’s lips are firm as she stares at me, irritation flickering in her eyes, but I just stare back at her. If she expects a further apology… 

I’m not in the mood for it today.

I’m grateful when the doors to my room open, and for a moment, it’s easier to breathe when some of the tension leaves through those parted doors. But Cora’s shoulders carry her own sort of weight, and as she steps across the doorway and looks between the two of us firmly, she does not look pleased.

“Cora,” I manage to smile—weakly, but it’s something. “Good morning. Are you coming with us to the flower festival?”

Cora fixes Rowena with a long stare—longer than usual. It’s a stare that is pointed, and venomous, and threatening, and I wonder what exactly runs through her mind when she turns to me. But when she does… all there is in her gaze is concern, and regret, and reluctance.

“No,” she answers with an apologetic smile of her own. “I have to meet Aidos for something, but I’ll send a guard to accompany you regardless.”

Rowena waves a hand. “Oh, that won’t be ne—”

“I’ll send a guard,” Cora says firmly, harshly.

Rowena shuts up with a _hmpf,_ but I take no notice.

“Are you sure you can’t come?” I ask quietly. Cora… while Rowena makes it easier to just _exist_ without having to make any decisions for myself, without having to do anything too difficult, it’s easier to do more than exist around Cora. It’s easier to feel _alive—_ to enjoy myself, at least on the good days as of late.

Cora shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You’ll know the guard. I promise.”

A certain amount of light flickers out of my eyes at the news, but I nod regardless and lower my head. “Enjoy your day.”

“I won’t be long,” Cora says, still looking at me. If she can sense the disappointment in my tone, then she’s certainly trying to make me feel better about it—or maybe make _herself_ feel better about being the cause of it. “If I finish early, I’ll come join you. And Rowena?”

“Hm?” Rowena hums in response. She looks at Cora with pointed brows and a gaze just as sour as the one Cora had fixed her with; one that radiates arrogance and confidence and knowledge all at once.

“She’d like to wear blue,” Cora responds, and then suddenly, the door is slammed shut.

A blue dress does just fine—pastel blue, a representation of just how I feel. 

I wear no flower crown, no headband of light—just myself and my skin that hardly glows these days, my wings slack behind me as if they’re mere accessories, not limbs meant for soaring, for exploring, for making use of _freedom._

I feel like a bird in a cage, and yet I have no desire to escape.

Not anymore, anyway. 

It’s quiet between myself, Rowena and the guard that trails behind us as our griffons pad along the dirt path that leads to the nearby village—or at least, it’s quiet on mine and my guard’s end. Rowena chatters away, and a lot of it is focused on the festival while most of her words are foul. _Watch your purse around the lesser fae—don’t delve too far on your own—pay attention to your surroundings at all times._ It’s as if the festival is a travelling band of merchants selling weapons and armour rather than the flowers gathered before the winter withers them all—as if it’s not a display of beauty before the end.

And when we get to the festival, to the large expanse of grass that has been set up in a clearing that borders a thick line of trees, I wonder how Rowena can see anything foul about this place at all.

The gentle swell of reed pipes meets my ears first, then the gentle thud of drums, and then comes the fiddle—its elegant tune sounds from somewhere within the vast array of stalls and displays and tents, mischievous and magical. Blooms of pinks and purples and yellows, all sorts of colours, line the tents as if the temporary structures are made from flowers and flowers alone. I spy dryads, lesser fae, High Fae; all come together as one in celebration of the coming winter. The buzz of nature is strong here, beautiful here, and as the magical sound of the music carries me away, I can’t help but close my eyes.

The music makes me feel like I could fall asleep under a whispering willow; it makes me feel like I could fall asleep and never wake up. And as I bask in the comfort, the peace, the serenity… I know why.

This place reminds me of the Spring Court. Because this place has brought an essence of Spring with it. 

And I wish now that I’d come alone.

My fingers tighten on the reins as my eyes open. I want to bolt; I want to be on my own, be free, not be surrounded by Rowena or a guard or anyone who might be able to stop me from doing what I want.

I want…

To be reckless. To be careless. And I don’t want to care what happens to me.

The last one, at least, I’m already doing.

“How… quaint,” Rowena says, her nose upturned as she observes our surroundings. The bitterness that wafts from her then… 

It’s a leading factor in my decision to dismount from my griffon with a solid stomp of my feet on the ground.

“Aurora, where are you going?” Rowena demands from behind me— _behind_ me, for I’m already walking off in the direction of the festival. I glance behind me to find that not even my guard knows what to do; he eyes my abandoned griffon desperately as Rowena shouts again, “Aurora!” 

My pace is fast as I hurry to get away from her, my fists clenched all the while. I’m only vaguely aware of my surroundings as my heart races in my ears, and when I bump into something—someone—soft, I spin around to face them with a look of momentary distraction on my features.

"Sorry!" I apologise genuinely, and I glance briefly over the person—girl—I collide with. 

She’s not a girl, not really, even despite the fact that she has a petite body similar to my own. She’s High Fae, owner to the sweetest of faces, with eyes the same brown as mine and cheeks just as soft. Her golden-brown hair falls in curls down her back, the rest of it pushed out of her face with pearl pins and flowers, except… 

Except there’s something off about her. Something strange and otherworldly. She hasn’t even stumbled—hasn’t even moved despite the fact that I collided with her quite hard. The expression on her face doesn’t even flicker. It’s blank, as motionless as her body, and… it’s as if she purposely stepped into my way, as if she was…

As if she was _waiting_ for me.

But that’s stupid, and I have bigger things to worry about, and— 

Except… she looks familiar somehow, like I’ve seen her before. And yet the only place I could possibly recognise her from is Under the Mountain, which is unlikely. Amarantha didn’t exactly let me make friends down there, and this girl doesn’t have nearly as much darkness in her to have witnessed the things I did.

I flash her an apologetic smile before I make to move again, but before I can, the girl’s fingers wrap around my wrist—tight.

“Aurora!” I hear Rowena call, and I flinch at the sound. _So much like Amarantha—_ so much like her that for a moment I can’t move, especially not with so much happening. This girl’s hand around my wrist, Rowena’s rage— “How _dare_ you act so—so—”

“Don’t trust her,” the girl tells me, breathless and desperate. 

My stomach drops, and I’m not really sure why.

But if I stare hard enough into her eyes… 

I swear there’s some sort of silver hue, some sort of out-of-this-world glaze—a light in her brown hues that speaks of something mystical, something that is so very different from the brightness that used to be in my own, something deeper and yet even still not darker—

My eyes widen with worry, with confusion. “What?”

“When the time comes,” she continues hurriedly, “the light is your friend.”

“What are you—”

“Elain,” a male voice says from behind her, soft and cool as night. There’s a flicker of shadow, a flicker of darkness, and then the owner of the voice comes into full view—and he definitely hadn’t been standing there before. 

He’s a combination of somewhat tousled short black hair; hazel eyes that are focused, concerned, on Elain’s form; gems that glow blue dotted across his black, scaled armour in strategic places, and… wings. Illyrian wings—just like Rhysand’s only a little wider, but still membranous, daunting, horrible things that the light seeps through— 

My face pales at the sight.

If I can’t even see those wings without feeling like I might faint, how am I supposed to survive a whole party with them as the hosts?

“Are you okay?” He asks Elain, inching closer, and he eyes me only briefly before his gaze returns to the brown-haired beauty in front of me.

My confusion reaches no bounds as I’m suddenly spun, and I’d give anything for Elain’s fingers on me again as Rowena’s hands instead clamp down on my shoulders. “Do you understand how _reckless_ that was?” She hisses, her fingers digging into my skin as she spins me; spins me with far too much force, too much strength. My guard glances between us, unsure of whether to say something, _do_ something— “That griffon could’ve trampled _everyone_ in sight—”

Maybe it was a mistake coming here, leaving the castle, because my head is spinning—spinning at how much is suddenly happening, at how much is suddenly going wrong. My head feels faint, my heart beat hudding in my ears, and— 

I close my eyes and try to drown it all out. _It’s too much. Too much. Too much._

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Rowena sneers.

There’s a brief pause, and then—

The male voice from before is cool and menacing when he asks, “Are you trying to leave bruises, Rowena?” 

I am well aware of Rowena’s fingertips as they dig into my shoulders, my collarbones—

“I don’t think Thesan would like that,” he continues, his voice alone a threat.

Another pause, a moment in which Rowena doesn’t make a sound, and then— “Azriel.”

I open my eyes slowly, as if bracing for some sort of blow; as if bracing for a blow which Amarantha certainly would have given me. But with Rowena so focused on this Azriel… 

“Aurora,” he says firmly, not unkindly, and I force myself to look at him, to look at him without passing out. “Do you want Rowena to stay?”

Rowena scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re—”

“Do you want her to stay?” He repeats, interrupting her. His gaze on me is cool and yet—soft, and understanding, and…

Kind.

I am vaguely aware of Elain beside him, blinking something out of her gaze—like some sort of haze, some sort of mist in front of her vision—

I swallow thickly, my thoughts racing, and— 

I have to avert my gaze from all three of them as I whisper, “No.”

Rowena blinks. One beat, two beats, three— 

Slowly, finally, she removes her hands from my form. And the look that appears on her face… it’s nothing but venomous. “No?”

“I said no,” I manage to whisper. My gaze is fixed on the grass below my feet; green grass, healthy and bright and— 

There’s another beat of silence before Rowena responds, “Fine.”

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile. Innocently. Deviously. I wonder then if I was wrong about her all along—about her being kind and misunderstood. About her being anything other than foul.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” Rowena huffs. She folds her arms afterwards and takes a step backwards, bitter displeasure written all across her features. “Enjoy attending this ghastly festival on your own, Aurora. I hope you’re happy.”

And with a rather dramatic twist, she spins on her heel and marches off in the other direction.

I stare at the grass even as she disappears off into the distance, even as I’m finally able to take a deep breath; even as I slowly become aware of my guard inching closer, a face I at least recognise from guard duties before— 

“Elain,” I hear Azriel’s voice behind me, and it’s only then that I look at them both—slowly, reluctantly, as if I'm interrupting something. “You vanished again.”

Elain blinks, and then she glances between Azriel and some spot in the distance, confused. “I did?”

Azriel cocks his head. “Another one?”

I don’t know what that means, but Elain nods—slowly. She looks at me, then down at my wrist, and then—recognition. It flashes in her eyes and along with it comes a rise of her brows, the parting of her lips— 

“Please forgive me,” she says. When she takes a step towards me, I see none of that shimmery silver haze left in her eyes. “I’m so sorry if I hurt you.”

I shake my head and glance down to my wrist, only to find the skin around it red. How hard had she gripped me? Looking at her now, it’s hard to imagine that she could ever harm anyone—that she could even hurt a fly. She’s thin like me, made up of skin and bone rather than muscle, and when I look up at her I realise she’s waiting, tense; waiting to see how I’ll respond.

“It’s alright,” I respond somewhat hesitantly. I rub my wrist gently. “It happens.”

Elain grimaces. “Does it?”

I glance between Azriel and Elain, unsure, before I give a gentle, somewhat hesitant shrug. “No, but it doesn’t matter regardless.”

“Are you sure—”

“I’m fine,” I insist, flashing the girl a small smile. If I’d been upset before, I wouldn’t be now—not with how apologetic she seems. “Please don’t fret.”

My words seem to calm her. She takes a breath and looks up at Azriel next, flashing him a small smile afterwards.

“I’ll be alright from here on. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Azriel frowns. “Are you sure?”

Elain opens her mouth to speak, to say something, but instead… instead, she nods.

Azriel does the same, only his nod is terse, more tense. “I’ll be around if you need me,” He says softly, kindly, and then— 

He vanishes.

Elain must notice the look on my face as I stare at the spot where Azriel’s shadows had consumed him, because she says with a smile, “He’ll be nearby.”

I look back at her and force a small smile onto my lips. “Does he do that a lot?”

Elain’s responding smile is more genuine than mine. “Sometimes," she responds, and she pauses only briefly before she continues, “I’m Elain. I mean—of course you heard, but…” Her fingers fold together in front of her nervously, and she gives a gentle, sheepish shrug. “I feel as though I should introduce myself properly.”

I nod. My gaze lowers briefly, gently. “Aurora,” I respond, looking up at her with a somewhat awkward smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Even if I did touch you rather inappropriately?”

“There are worse places to be touched.”

Elain’s lips part into an _o_ shape, and she blinks as she regards me. For a moment I merely stare at her, wondering what I said that was so shocking, and when my cheeks flush red—

“Not in that way!” I grimace.

Elain’s smile widens. “I knew what you meant.” I’m not sure that she did, but regardless— “Would you perhaps… I mean, if you aren’t intending to meet anybody else… would you care to accompany me? I don’t exactly know anybody here. And I do feel like I should make it up to you.”

 _It_ meaning my wrist, I suppose. I should ask her what she meant about Rowena—ask her what she meant about the light. But Elain seems to be quite regretful about the whole thing, and the longer I take to respond, the more nervous she seems. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, not when she seems so apologetic—not when she seems so kind. Perhaps I should be wary about the idea of spending time with the person whose hand just left a mark on my wrist, but...

I realise all of a sudden that this might perhaps be the most genuine person I have talked to in a very, very long time. And it's not like I care very much for my safety anyway. What difference does spending time with her make?

I nod and take a step towards her. “Of course. Thank you for the offer.”

Elain smiles at me. “Wonderful! Do you perhaps like flower crowns?”

I blink at her, and then a small smile creeps onto my face. “Who _doesn’t_ like flower crowns?”

Something brightens in Elain’s eyes then—something so unlike the misty light I had seen in her eyes before. “Oh, we are _definitely_ going to be good friends.”

And when her arm links in mine, I don’t shrug her touch away. And I don’t let go.

I think we might be good friends, too.

I let out a small huff of laughter, my gaze lowering to the soft satin shoes I wear as we make our way across the grass and deeper into the festival. My guard trails along behind us, far enough behind to give me my privacy while keeping an eye on me, and I find that it works well for me.

“I saw a stall in passing,” Elain tells me, her tone less timid now, “which sold the most beautiful ones. I like the pastels—the pinks and the purples.”

“Pinks and purples with pearls?” I smile at her.

Elain beams back. “Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should find that stall, then,” I say to her, and the giggle that slips from Elain’s lips in response is a wonderful sound.

As it turns out, the two of us are rather alike—at least from what I can tell. We get distracted more often than not, whether it’s by food or flirtatious stall owners drawing us in or little games where you can hook a clay rose and win a bouquet of flowers, and the fact that we’re both as excited as the other about the vast array of them here—roses, delias, peonies and more—doesn’t help us stay focused.

In fact, by the time we’re almost done with the stall, Elain has a box of sweets under her arm, and I have a stick of some fluffy sort of food that makes my fingers sticky and is incredibly difficult to eat when the breeze comes along and gets it in my hair. But I’m happy—at least as far as distractions go. And when we take a seat on one of the picnic blankets laid out in a clearing in the middle of the fair, I think this might be the most content I’ve felt in a long time.

We fall into a content sort of silence—one which, truthfully, is very strange to me. I hardly know this girl and yet even still I feel comfortable in her presence, in that sort of comfortable silence one has with a friend who just _understands._ I realise then how little I actually know about her, and when I look up at her, there’s a smile on my face as my head tilts curiously.

“Are you from the Dawn Court?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Something about that Illyrian’s presence with her indicates that she isn’t from here at all.

Elain smiles at me. “Nearby, but no. Not from here. A friend…” She frowns, briefly pausing, and then she continues, “I heard from a friend that your court was lovely, and when I heard there was a flower festival nearby, I thought I might like to visit. Azriel was kind enough to accompany me.”

I nod. “I see.”

It’s quiet between us for a moment before Elain says softly, “Your friend doesn’t seem very… nice.”

I press my lips together and lower my stick of fluff, pink and swaying a little in the gentle breeze. “She’s…” I try to think of the words, and I give myself time to do so by taking a mouthful of the stuff that dissolves in my mouth. “It’s complicated.”

It’s Elain’s turn to nod now. “I see.”

Working up the courage to ask about her words earlier, her words of Rowena and light, I ask, “What did you mean by—”

“Oh—look!” Elain smiles, her gaze drawn to something behind me now. When I turn to follow her gaze, I see the people she’s staring at—dryads. “How beautiful.” 

Indeed, she’s right: the dryads’ skins are a vast array of shades of green, of browns, of pinks, and some even have skin like the Spriggans, skin that’s made up entirely of tree bark itself. They wear dresses covered in flowers, although their fashion is certainly very much different from our own—more revealing, with parts of their body on show that I’d never dare to reveal in public. They giggle and dance, all kinds of fae crowded around them as they weave something in their hands—flower crowns, I realise. The very ones we were looking for earlier on. 

“Come!” Elain says with a beam. She makes to stand, her hand slipping into mine, and together, we begin to make our way over to the dryads—hand in hand. “Let’s go get flower crowns, and then we can relax for good.”

“Look at _that_ one,” I breathe in awe, pointing to a particularly pretty one of greens and pinks and pearls. “How pretty!”

The dryads giggle as we near them. Some are in conversation with customers, beams on their faces as they go; some dance to the music that filters throughout the festival; some work hard, weaving flower crowns from flowers that fly towards them in the air, carried on the gentle breeze. They’re beautiful creatures of nature, lovers of their craft, and— 

And all of a sudden, they're all staring at me. Me—not Elain. _Me._

“Welcome!” One of them smiles. She’s the only one that speaks.

The others stop and stare. Smiles slowly, creepily glide onto their faces as if they’re all one collective hivemind—one mind, just like the Spriggans had been. Elain keeps moving forwards even despite the dread that swiftly fills my stomach, and I don’t know why or how but I know that this isn’t right, that this isn’t normal—

"Bride of Spring!" One of them giggles, and instantly, I tense. They’re moving now, moving towards us, all customers around them abandoned as a crowd begins to build around us, suffocating, surrounding— 

Azriel flickers into view beside us. Shadows swirl around him when he says, “Elain—”

“Azriel?” Elain frowns. She comes to a sudden stop and I can’t tell if it’s because of Azriel’s presence or the way my legs falter, the way they stop moving— “What’s wrong?”

Azriel’s gaze flickers between myself and Elain, but he says nothing—only glances around us, waiting for something, something I know I won’t like. The dryads are inching closer now, closer, and even Elain seems to be growing uncomfortable; that is, if the tension in her body is any sign— 

"The High Lord's mate!" Another one announces.

I pull my arm from Elain’s as my breathing suddenly takes on a rapid pace. No—no, I told nobody but Rowena and Cora, unless—unless Tamlin had told somebody other than Lucien, unless—

"His equal," another giggles, "in every way!"

They place something on my head—a crown, I realise, made of ivory and gold and green, all bridal colours of spring, magnificent and splendid, pale and pristine—it’s as if the thing itself sucks the energy from my body, the will to stay conscious, because sound is slowly fading away until all I can hear is a high pitched noise and my head feels hot, too hot— _too much too much too much—_

As my vision turns dark and I feel my body grow limp, the last thing I feel are strong arms around me before everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Just a note: I may not post another update until a few days' time because I want a backlog of chapters, and at the moment, I'm finalising them on the day, which is a little bit stressful. I'll try to get another update as soon as possible; I just don't want to be rushing myself. Love you guys! <3


	35. Aurora

The door to my rooms is pushed open with far too much force than necessary.

It makes me wince, my head still spinning from losing consciousness earlier on. I’d come back to consciousness to find Azriel’s arms around me, and the sight of his wings and that dark hair had momentarily made me scramble away, but… I still don’t feel very well at all. And with the meeting with the Night Court not too far away, after _embarrassing_ myself in front of one of its members, I don’t feel too confident in myself either.

Auralis’ eyes settle on me firmly from where he stands in the doorway, a deep-set frown on his fair brows. There’s this look in his eye—anger, I realise, although not directed at me but somebody else, _something_ else, though I can’t understand who. Certainly not Azriel, who still lingers in the corner of the room; certainly not Elain, who perches beside me on the chaise longue I lie upon now. And it’s certainly not Thesan, my father, who appears a moment after Auralis throws the door to my rooms open—Thesan, who looks exasperated with his lover and worried about me. 

“Aurora,” Auralis breathes, and he crosses the room in no time to reach me. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, resisting the urge to close my eyes. I want to sleep—I want to succumb to nothing but peaceful blackness. As much as I appreciate Azriel’s help and Elain’s soothing touch as she tucks loose strands of hair from my face, I want nothing more than to be alone.

“My love,” Thesan says softly to Auralis, glancing between myself, his mate and Azriel, “we have guests.”

Auralis glances over to Azriel and then looks at him properly, as if the only person he’d noticed in the room as he entered was me. I see Auralis' throat bob as he swallows, and then he nods towards Azriel in both greeting and respect... and suddenly he is collected, calm, the guard he presents himself to be around those outside of our court. As if he and I aren’t close. As if Auralis isn’t completely and utterly overwhelmed for love for his mate.

I never question it, and father doesn’t take it as an insult. I think Auralis believes, to a certain degree, that love is weakness. And if masking the strongest parts of his affection for my father helps him sleep at night, I won’t judge him for it.

“Thank you,” Thesan nods to Azriel, “for ensuring my daughter’s safe return.”

The Illyrian nods, but it's Elain's voice that rings out through the room first. “We wanted to make sure she got home safe,” she says softly, and her cheeks flush as the attention in the room shifts to her.

Softly, my fingers wrap around her own in thanks. “I feel fine,” I lie weakly, and then I look to Azriel. “I’m sorry if I caused you any hassle.”

But it’s Elain, again, that responds first, a shake of her head following. “You don’t need to apologise for anything.”

I suck in a breath, feeling very much like I do need to apologise. My gaze finds Azriel’s again, and this time, there’s no fear there—not after he’s shown me so much kindness. If it were Rhysand, it would be a different story. But this male…

We exchange this look—a mutual understanding, a look that says thank you, a look that says it’s fine. A look that says there are no judgements, no hard feelings—or at least I assume so, because there’s no bitterness in his gaze as he regards me. And considering the rumours spreading around, the rumours that I’m close with somebody who was seemingly so foul to his High Lady, that means a lot.

“Please send my well wishes to Rhys,” Thesan nods to Azriel, and then to Elain, “and to Feyre.”

Elain nods, and that's when I realise. Feyre… 

Of course. Of _course._ Feyre has sisters, doesn’t she? And Elain—her eyes might be a different colour, warmer than Feyre’s own, but I can see their similarities. Elain’s face shape is just softer, less angular than Feyre’s, and…

Either she’s kind enough to befriend me despite the rumours, or she doesn’t know. And I can’t tell which is more likely. I just hope Elain will be at the party with the Night Court in a few days’ time, because Mother knows it’ll be a lot easier to get through it with her there. Perhaps. Today had been fun, but Elain had been far more excited with me. It was hard to keep up with someone so excited, so gleeful, when I had felt like such a drag.

Maybe by the time of the gathering I might feel a little bit better. Or maybe I won’t.

Maybe I’ll have spoken to Tamlin.

 _Stupid girl,_ a voice hisses at me, and I can’t tell whether it’s Amarantha or Rowena speaking it.

I know then that I have to make a change. I have to. I want Tamlin so _bad,_ want to see him and wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight enough until I'm one with him—want to kiss him and feel his skin against mine. I miss him terribly, terribly so, and I can only hope that he feels the same way. He has to, doesn't he? He's my mate, after all—he's my mate for a reason.

Elain, beside me, nods. “Of course,” she says, that gentle flush still on her cheeks.

“If we are all done here," Thesan says, not unkindly, "then my mate will escort you both to a place where you may winnow home. I would hate to keep you for longer than necessary.”

In no time, Elain is bidding me goodbye with a gentle wave as Azriel accompanies her, silent as a still moonlit night, and Auralis, perhaps a little begrudgingly, leads them from the room with the grace of a trained soldier and the Lord of Dawn. Azriel gives me a brief nod in goodbye and then finally, finally, my father and I are alone, and Thesan wastes no time in crossing the room with light steps to perch at the foot of the chaise longue.

My father is quiet for a few seconds before he asks, “What happened?”

I close my eyes, and as a breath leaves my lungs, I feel myself sink into the plush cushions of the chaise some more. “Papa, I’m not sure.”

Thesan asks, “Are you telling me the truth?”

I open my eyes then, frowning in confusion. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Slowly, Thesan responds, "You haven't exactly been yourself lately, Aurora."

I press my lips together in thought, glancing away from him. He's right. My irritation has gotten the better of me lately, and if I'm not acting out, then I'm simply not acting at all. But it's not as if I've had much reason to be _happy_ lately—not when there are rumours spread about me at every turn, not when the Dawn Court feels less like home than some _other_ place in particular does... 

Papa takes my hand. He wraps his fingers around mine and says, “Tell me about it.”

I suck in a breath and look back at him. As much as I want to, I can't tell him the details. Not all of them. Not when he doesn't know that Tamlin and I are mates. Not when he likely wouldn't take the news well. I _want_ to tell him about today; I want to curl into his arms and close my eyes and fall asleep knowing that he's got me, that he's here for me, but what if it ends up more complicated than it's worth? 

"It was just a lot," I tell him, which isn't untrue. "I didn't feel very well when I left. I shouldn't have gone."

"You haven't been feeling very well at all lately, it would seem."

I nod.

Thesan begins awkwardly, "If your moods lately are related to your lack of visits to Tamlin—"

"Papa, I don't want to talk about Tamlin."

"Why?" He demands, his tone a little stronger—and yet still not aggressive. "Did he—did he do something to hurt you, Aurora?"

My lips part in surprise; surprise that my father would assume such at hing. But then again, what else is there to assume? Tamlin and I were inseparable; only something dramatic would force us apart so swiftly. And something dramatic _did_ happen, but I can't tell him that—at least not the full extent of it.

"No," I answer surprisingly calmly, "he did not. He _would_ not, papa. We just... we had a disagreement."

"A disagreement," Thesan says slowly.

I nod.

My father averts his gaze, his brown hues clouded with thought as he stares at a spot on the floor and _thinks._ For a long time he is silent, quiet, and the only movement from him is the shake of his head when his thoughts likely get too much. Papa stands, his hands on his thighs as his robes swish at his feet, and then he is pacing—slowly, yet still, the movements are there.

"With all these rumours..." Thesan murmurs wearily, his voice barely audible as he turns to face me, "I hardly know what's true and what's not. They say you're plotting against the Night Court; they say you're working with Tamlin against Rhys. And as much as I do not believe it, I hardly feel like I know you these days. And it leaves a cloud of confusion in my head, little dove."

My eyes are wide as I look at him, wondering just where he's going with this, just what he's thinking and what he's about to say—

"You don't really believe that I could... that I could do this, do you?"

Thesan looks at me, his silence terrifying, before he responds, "No. I do not. But you're so... unlike your usual self these days, Aurora."

I look away, my eyes closing briefly. Maybe I can tell him a little—not too much, but a little. Without telling him we're mates. Although with what the dryads had said at the festival, how long until he finds out?

And slowly, slowly, I will up the courage to tell him.

"He wanted me to come and live with him," I tell Papa slowly. "He wanted me to move to the Spring Court, to be his wife, and I said no."

Thesan stares at me. And stares. I can see his expression as it shifts from weariness to anger and then outrage, all small little movements from the father I know and love so very well. 

"He asked—" Papa cuts himself off, and I know from that fact alone that he's at the very least irritated. His eyes are wide, and though his jaw is relaxed, I can tell there's _some_ form of outrage in him right now. "He _asked_ that of you?"

Slowly, gently, I nod.

"Aurora," Thesan says, and swiftly, he crosses the room to take up his place at the end of the chaise longue once more, "that was mightily inappropriate of him."

"Papa—"

"No, dove. He should—he should discuss that with _me,_ not with you."

"Why? Because you make the decisions in regards to whom I love?"

Thesan blinks at me, and then I realise what I've said. "You love him, then?"

I clench my jaw and avert my gaze. "Not the point, papa."

Thesan takes a deep breath. "You're right. It's not the point. But you know that's not what I meant—just as you know that I let you make your own choices. You had males vowing for your future hand in marriage when you were _three,_ Aurora, and I refused them all—refused them so that you could choose, so that you could forge your own future. But just because you can talk and make your own decisions does not mean that he gets to bypass formality with _me_."

"What does it _matter_ now?" I demand of him, my fingers splaying in exasperation. "I haven't spoken to him in just over a week, and... and he hasn't sent me any letters. Not like we used to."

Thesan is quiet again, before— "You miss him even still."

I close my eyes. "Yes."

That earthen scent, the way his skin is tinged golden, the way my head against his chest feels like home—

Thesan stands, turning away from me. "I will be speaking to him about this."

I open my eyes to gawk at him. Mother above, no—I'll make a mental note not to tell my father anything in future. Who knows what Tamlin will say? What he'll do? And if my mate is lying in the pit of despair that I suspect he's in, then... then the last thing he needs is to be kicked when he's down.

"Please don't," I beg him. Not for me—for _Tamlin._ "He'll be upset as is."

"He should've thought about that before deciding to be so rude."

I close my eyes. "Papa—"

"No, Aurora. We will settle this."

I let out a sigh, and I know from my father's tone alone that there won't be any swaying him. "Can you at least give him my well wishes? Tell him that I miss him?"

Thesan frowns. "You just told me that he proposed to you inappropriately. I don't think that warrants any well wishes at all."

I look at him pointedly, a frown of my own furrowing my brows. "It would make me very, very happy, papa, to know that he knows that I do not detest him. And that I still care."

Thesan stares at me again, pauses, and then... "Alright," he says with an exhale.

He makes to leave. Father paces across the room slowly, his steps deliberate and thoughtful, and he only pauses when his fingers ghost over the glass knob of the door.

"If you are still feeling unwell when the Night Court gala comes around," he says quietly, turning back to me, "then I will see what I can do."

I stare at him. 

"No," I tell him. "I'll go."

I have to go. I have to prove them wrong—not to mention that Azriel and Elain were kind to me. If not for me, I must prove them all wrong for father—for his court—for the people within it. For...

For Tamlin, too.

Mother knows he's had enough jip from the Night Court. He deserves to be left in peace—far, far away from the people who bring to the surface so much trauma.

Thesan glances over me once more, always thoughtful, ever the analytical sort, and then he nods.

"Very well," he responds. He pauses for a moment and I wonder if there's something else he wants to say—something important. "I will send a healer to check on you in a few hours' time."

My father leaves my room with more determination than usual, and when the doors shut behind him, I throw my head back on the longue with a sigh.

When sleep finally comes at last, it's a welcome void of nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So at the moment I think I'll start posting chapter updates on Wednesdays and Fridays, and maybe in the future that might pick up again, but at the moment life is getting a little busier. I hope that works for you guys and I'm sorry if this is disappointing news!
> 
> If your week turns out to be truly terrible without a daily update, I post all the time about my fanfic on my Tiktok (@tamlinsproudlength) and I also have a discord server dedicated to ACOSAV and ACOTAS which you can find by clicking the link in my Tiktok bio. Alternatively, comment here and I'll respond with the invite link!


	36. Thesan

I try to stop myself from doing this.

I definitely _should_ stop myself from winnowing into the Spring Court, and I certainly should stop myself from marching right through the bustling gardens lined with lush, cosy green bushes and right up to the front door of Tamlin's new palace. I certainly shouldn't be here; not in a mood like this, not in a mood so unfamiliar to me.

But Tamlin asking Aurora for her hand in marriage— _insulting_ me in such a way...

I am usually calm. And just. And patient.

But not today.

Blame it on the rumours; blame it on me being pushed too far; blame it on my love for my daughter. But whatever the blame, I will not apologise for coming here and demanding answers.

And yet when I storm through the grandiose doors huddled amongst the greyish stone of the palace only to find servants balking at me in terror, I can't help but feel guilty at making them fret so. And when I'm approached by a nervous winged faerie, a faerie who ushers me into a living room once Tamlin's presence has been requested, when I'm passed a cup of tea and I'm treated well and made comfortable, it does seem like a bit of an anti-climax.

"He's in a meeting at present, Lord," the servant bows nervously—low, lower, "but I will let him know that you're here."

"He likely already knows," I respond, "but thank you."

I can sense Tamlin's power, his presence, even from here. If I can sense his, he can likely sense mine—not to mention that I'd winnowed right into his court, right on the edge of his barriers.

The servant nods, and in no time they are scrambling off—likely to announce my presence to Tamlin himself.

For a few long moments, I am alone: a High Lord in all his finery, glistening with irritation, with a cup of tea in hand—peach, Aurora's favourite, as if it's some kind of insult—and then I am not.

"This way, Lord," the servant bows once they return, and I clear my throat as I stand, ready to follow.

Swiftly, I find myself being led through the halls of the palace, and I observe my surroundings as I go. The palace's hallways are a mix of dark wood and pale green walls with intricate golden lining, and the sunshine that filters through the windows is the only thing keeping the palace from being completely shrouded in darkness. Tamlin's court seems to be running, and although it _is_ quiet around, it looks nothing like the rumours I heard not long ago—just before he and Aurora had grown close. And although this place hardly seems bustling, there are signs of life. And order. And a steady rule.

It's not what I expected, certainly. If I were in a better mood, I think I might like it here. His palace is cosy, its corridors narrow and his staircases homely. It's a stark contrast to the towering pillars of the Dawn Court and the archways to the air which line almost every wall. This place reminds me of our summer home, the cosy residence Auralis and I spent the warmest of months in when Aurora was only a few years old. I can still hear her girlish laughter, can still see the smile on Auralis' face—

As we reach Tamlin's study, I can hear voices within. One male—Tamlin's own voice, unmistakably, deep and unbothered but strong, just as he is. And the other... softer, less formal, a sign that she isn't a noble at all but more-so a servant. And when the servant opens the door and Tamlin's study is revealed, I realise that my suspicions were right.

The female is a faerie with skin like tree bark—an Urisk, they're called, if my memory is correct. She wears the attire typically worn by maids, simple and plain and yet efficient, and her brunette hair falls in waves and compliments the rich brown of her skin. Tamlin, in comparison...

Strong. Bored. Sharp. These are all words that come to mind when I take in his golden hair, half of it tied back away from his face, and the doublet which compliments the green in his eyes. He sits behind his desk while the faerie before him stands, and his gaze merely flicks over me before it averts, again, to her.

Tamlin nods. "Alis." **** ~~~~

Alis gives the both of us a quick nod, and with one last look at Tamlin, she passes me with haste. And then she is gone.

And then, as the servant closes the door, Tamlin and I are alone. **** ~~~~

The room is a mess, but not in the kind that sings of the aftermath of rage. Rather, it tells of business—an orderly chaos. His study is filled with stacks and stacks of papers, illuminated by the sunlight which casts the room in a magical glow, and I lap up as much detail as possible out of habit; I know how to read between the lines, even when there isn't any conversation at all. I wonder: does he feel the need to keep himself busy, or is there something deeper going on here—something I don't understand? Whatever it is, I'll have time to mull over it later. Because for now...

For now, Tamlin is staring at me. And he does not look happy to see me.

"Why are you here, Thesan," Tamlin asks me in way of greeting. His voice is deep, flat. Uncaring. Unbothered.

_Right to it, then._

"I think you know why I'm here."

"No, I don't."

I raise my brows at him.

Tamlin stares back, defiant.

I'm just about to open my mouth to speak when Tamlin responds darkly, "The only reason you could be here is because of Aurora, and that cannot be it. She has made her wish to stay away from me quite clear."

Bitterly, I bite back, "Yes, well, that will happen when, after knowing a youngling for a few weeks at most, you ask her to move to your court and marry you."

Tamlin lets out a huff of laughter and shakes his head, averting his gaze to the window. "She's not a youngling anymore."

"Oh, I am sure that's what you tell yourself at night to make you feel better, Tamlin," I tell him, inching closer with irritation, "but she is still young."

"And yet she has been through so much," Tamlin responds coolly. His gaze is unmoving from the window, from the seaside view outside of it.

For a moment, I merely stare at him, frustration lining the thin line of my lips and the clenched position of my jaw. If he is suggesting that anything that happened to my daughter is my _fault_ —my error...

Slowly, I ask, "Are you suggesting that what happened to her is my fault?"

Tamlin shrugs, and he only looks back at me then. "I did not say that, Thesan. No—I'm saying that she has been through plenty, and some part of her doesn't need protecting in the way you think she does."

"Do not speak to me of protection, Tamlin," I say dangerously, daringly, "not when you yourself have shown too much of it to a certain female in your past."

Silence.

Tamlin stares at me, anger flashing in his eyes, and then—

Something else.

Something that makes his eyes narrow, that makes his head tilt upwards, that makes him look awfully smug.

"Did she tell you the truth of it?" He demands. There's... a wicked sort of amusement in his eye—the sort that unsettles me; the sort I had seen in his gaze at the High Lords meeting. "The whole story?"

My silence is answer enough.

"Of course not," Tamlin mutters.

He shakes his head and stands, pacing over to the window. His hands fold behind his back, and I cannot help but notice the contrast to how he was when I last spoke to him—not the ball, but before. When he came to visit and requested Aurora's presence in his court. He had seemed so relaxed then; not soft, but—softer. Softer than this. And there is only bitterness in him now, bitterness that makes his shoulders straight and his head tilts upwards with pride.

If he thinks he's fooling anyone with this defensive stance, he's wrong. I know the sign of a hurting male when I see one—especially one who's trying to pretend everything is alright. Even so, while Tamlin remains silent for a while, I do not interrupt him... even despite my desire to know just what he is keeping from me. What _Aurora_ is keeping from me.

If he hurt her at _all_ —

"We're mates," Tamlin responds slowly, still not facing me. "Did she tell you that, at least?" **** ~~~~

My lips part, but no sound comes out.

Even if I knew what to say, I wouldn't be able to.

My daughter... somebody's _mate..._

"What?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.

Tamlin looks back at me then, and while there's a softer look in his eye, it's still not gentle. It's... remorseful. "I did not ask her to marry me out of greed, Thesan, or to slight you, which is why I assume you are so defensive. I wanted us to begin our lives together."

 _Begin their lives together._ No—no, he will not take her from me, not when she is barely more than a child, not when I have had no more than thirty years with her, not when Amarantha took her once before already—

But Aurora still loves him.

She wanted me to give him her well wishes. Her love.

"She doesn't want it, anyway," Tamlin says, that bitterness returning to his tone as he turns to look back out of the window, "so you can keep your worry. I won't be pursuing her."

One beat, two beats, three— "Do you mean that?"

The look Tamlin gives me is pointed, bordering on disappointed. "So eager to keep her as a bird in a cage, aren't you?"

I bristle at his tone. "You know nothing of Aurora's life. You understand none of it."

Tamlin responds coolly, unbothered by my own tone, "She has spoken to me plenty of it."

"You say she is a prisoner," I bite back, "and yet I don't see you doing anything to stop it."

Tamlin's gaze on me darkens. "I learned my lesson from pursuing a female who did not want to be chased the first time around, Thesan."

I take a deep breath, an attempt to calm myself. Arguing about this does nothing—I came here for a reason, and though there was a lot of irritation behind the decision to do so, I still have a message for him. I still have things I want to say, things he needs to hear—

"Mates or no," I say, "you are to come to me, in future, before you decide that it is within your power to make decisions for my daughter."

Tamlin states flatly, "You do not give me orders."

I barely resist a growl, a sound that hardly ever slips from my lips. "I do not want our courts to fall out, Tamlin," I warn him dangerously, "but they will— _we_ will—if you decide that protocol is not necessary; if you decide that my approval in regards to my daughter's life is not necessary. She had males vying for her hand in marriage when she was a few years _old,_ Tamlin, males hungry for a pretty little wife and nothing more, and my protection of her then was the same as it is now. Do not underestimate what I will do for her."

Tamlin is silent for a while, a long silence as he stares at me with this unreadable expression on his face, and then—

"Do you really think me like the rest of them?"

I frown at him, half uninterested in what he has to say and the better, wiser part of me curious. Tamlin must take my silence as encouragement to go on, because in the next moment he is speaking again, spewing word after word after word—

"I cared for her even before I knew she was my mate, Thesan. Do not underestimate how much _I_ care for her; do not assume that I want her simply so that she can be an object for me to gaze upon when I am in the mood for it. I care for how she feels, what she thinks, and what she wants. Which is why I am staying away." He pauses briefly, and then— "And do _not_ assume that, just because I asked her to live with me, I would steal her away like a thief in the night. I know the pain that causes, and I have no desire to delve my court into even more chaos. I am _not_ Rhysand."

And as I gaze upon him, as I listen to the way he speaks—the annoyance in his tone... 

I believe him. To an extent.

I believe that he would not steal her away, not intentionally. Not after what he went through. I believe that he cares about her genuinely, which eases some part of my hear that I didn't even know was hurting. But Aurora...

I believe that she is young, and naïve, and hopeful. I believe that she believes in love, and I believe that she would not care about anything other than the mating bond if presented with the opportunity to stay in his court long enough.

 _She_ is the one that would not care for protocol.

And I know then that it is only a matter of time before I lose her to him.

"It is all well and good saying it, Tamlin," I respond to him quietly, barely able to muster up more than a murmur, "but I will enjoy seeing you prove it."

I winnow away shortly after that, and I do not look back.

I leave with the feeling that I could have done more, that I should have passed on my daughter's well wishes, and yet...

And yet if being selfish means that I can keep my daughter a youngling for a moment longer, if keeping her kindness from him means that she remains my little dove, then I'm willing to do anything to keep her like that for as long as possible.

I'm willing to do this for myself—even if it sacrifices her happiness in the short term.

 _She'll get over this,_ I tell myself. _She will._

It's _Aurora,_ for Heavens' sake.

She has to.


	37. Cora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! So I've decided that we'll stick to our Wednesday and Friday updating schedule, but if I have any bonus chapters/enough of a backlog to post, we'll get the occasional bonus chapter on Sunday. Enjoy! I know it's short, but posting this today means that we get the Night Court stuff on Wednesday and Friday <3 Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments!

"And just what," Auralis seethes, "were you two doing that was important enough to leave my d— _Aurora,_ " Auralis says, cutting himself off with irritation, "alone?"

I shoot a glance across at Aidos, a look that radiates confusion— _my_ Aurora?—and uncertainty at the same time. I'm not sure how much Aidos wants to divulge, and given that he seems the most driven out of the two of us, I'm going to let him be the one in charge for a change. And since Auralis favours Aidos over me, since he trusts him more than me, I'm willing to let him do anything he deems fitting in order to get us out of this mess.

This mess...

Auralis had summoned us to his office in the Peregryn command tower shortly after Aurora's return to the palace, which I had only heard about _from_ the Captain himself. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to leave Aurora with a guard that doesn’t know her the same way I do, but it had been necessary. I would never want to put her in harm’s way—never, because if it were Aidos, I’d skin him alive for it. But today had proven that Aidos was right—right about Sabah, and Rowena, and Rowena using Aurora for her own gain.

Sabah hadn't revealed anything interesting. Not at first.

But then… 

_A meeting with the Night Court,_ he had whispered. And I had known, as dumb and reckless as the brute next to me is, that Aidos was right.

"She wasn't alone, sir,” I respond. “She had a guard with her."

Auralis' teeth clench, his gaze ablaze as his brown eyes settle on me. "Yes—a guard who trusted an Illyrian to carry Aurora back to the castle alone. A guard who could have ensured that Aurora was taken _hostage;_ a guard who could have seen her dead. All because of some rumours. So I'll ask again: what was so important that you had to leave her alone?"

One beat, two, three— 

Quietly, Aidos responds, "Aurora, sir."

Auralis tilts his head upwards, clearly unimpressed with Aidos’ answer. "Aurora."

"We discovered something about Priestess Rowena," I say slowly, warily, as I shoot Aidos another glance—a glance which might give him the chance to signal me to shut up if he wants to. He shoots nothing back, so I look back at Auralis firmly. “Something that suggests that Rowena is using Aurora for her own gain. We didn’t tell you because we have no physical proof. We were…” _Going to look in her tower when news of what happened at the festival reached our ears._

Auralis is quiet for a few long seconds, his gaze hardening, and I can tell that he's trying to bite back his anger. He glances between us, likely waiting for me to continue my sentence—a continuation that doesn't come.

His gaze settles on Aidos, ever the golden boy. “How do you know this?”

Aidos responds, “Rowena has servants—her followers—spreading news of everything that Aurora tells her. Everything that happens in court. Aurora's likely telling her things in confidence. And with how she’s been lately…”

"She'd be easy to exploit," I murmur.

Auralis' gaze is cold and hard, his shoulders straight, and if I didn't know better I might think he's angry at us. But there's this faraway look in his eye that indicates that he's deep in thought, analysing, thinking over everything he's seen, and—

“This is a grand accusation to make of the High Priestess of Dawn," Auralis says, dangerously low.

Together, we respond, “We know.”

Silence—momentary silence. Auralis continues, “And yet you are making it anyway.”

“Yes,” Aidos says. I nod.

Auralis stares at us, his gaze firm and dark, and for a moment the only sound that rings through the room is the crackle of the fires in the braziers around the office. The Peregryn command tower is where Auralis’ quarters are located, although the tower itself is made up of old stone which predates the majority of the sunstone that the Dawn Court is made up of. It’s faded and crumbling and somewhat homey, especially with the way the firelight casts shadows on the wall. 

Auralis must have had to stand his ground to stay here even after the mating bond snapped into place with the High Lord, because there’s no way Thesan, as in love with his mate as he seems to be, would have given him quarters anything other than perfect.

One beat. Two, three, four— 

Slowly, Auralis says, "Then we must figure out her motive."

I blink at him. "You believe us?"

Auralis lets out a slow breath, as if he’s not entirely pleased about it but has no other option _but_ to believe us. “What other leads do we have?” He states more than asks. “I am willing to believe that Rowena is guilty until proven innocent.”

Aidos’ arms fold, and if he’s as surprised as I am at Auralis’ belief, then he doesn’t show us. “But how do we figure out her motive?”

Auralis pauses for a moment longer, and then— "We confront one of her weakest links. If we're wrong, then we'll swiftly discover it. But if not..."

"If not, we get everything we need from Sabah," Aidos grins.

Auralis nods, and then he stands. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything— _everything_ , right down to every last detail.”

And so we do.

We tell him all of it: Aidos following Rowena, Aidos overhearing her conversation with Sabah; Aidos approaching me for aid; when we’d started tracking Sabah, who he’d spoken to, what we’d learned, who the people he’d spoken to had passed those rumours onto, what they’re done with them. Rowena and Sabah are intertwined in a web of lies and deceit that I’m not entirely comfortable with, not when I’ve never been good at reading between the lines or being anything other than blunt, but Auralis seems to have a good enough hold on what we’re doing—better than Aidos and I, at least.

And by the end, when we’ve scoured over every last detail and every last droplet of information, I know two things for sure.

One: Sabah, the nervous wreck that he is, has no chance in the Heavens at avoiding our wrath.

Two…

Rowena’s days as a High Priestess in this court are numbered.


	38. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know I said we'll get updates on Wednesdays, Fridays and extras on Sundays, but... let's just take Wednesdays and Fridays as definite days. Because otherwise if I have time I'll definitely be posting. And how can I wait for tomorrow when the Night Court stuff begins today?
> 
> I think I'm as addicted to this story as you guys are.
> 
> Love you all <3

I send a letter to Tamlin in the days leading up to the gathering at the Night Court.

It's a scribble of words—short and messy, a tangle of emotion, but there aren't enough words to describe the longing I feel for him. It's the same sort of longing from the last time we were separated only stronger, deadlier, like a part of me is missing and needs to return.

 _I miss you,_ I write. _I miss you more than words can say. Please may we meet?_

_I need to talk to you—my heart longs for you so much that it hurts._

_Please._

_I love you._

And with each passing day that he doesn't respond, I feel that tear in my heart grow wider.

Have I ruined things entirely?

I hope not.

I suck in a breath as I glance over myself in the mirror, my thoughts a swarm inside of my head—but at least they're a swarm that I can push aside. My dress is a bit too puffy on the sleeves for my liking: I like things sleek, with a low neckline which illuminates my long neck and the curve of my petite waist, but Rowena had chosen puffy sleeves and jewels—far different to the womanly style I now prefer. It's girlish, a deep purple lightened with sheer fabrics of burgundy and lilac, and the jewels sparkle at my chest, on my skirt; even in my hair. It's not me at all, but...

It's easier to go along with Rowena's plans than to fight back.

I had tried to fight her after that day at the festival; I'd tried to pull away from our friendship, or whatever this little _thing_ we keep playing at is. But she kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing. And now...

Now, I'm back to where I was before. But at least I'd been able to hide that letter to Tamlin from her.

 _Unless she'd somehow gotten hold of it—unless he never got it in the first place,_ a voice whispers to me.

I close my eyes at the thought. I know there's something deeper in Rowena, something darker, and I'm no longer as naïve as I was on that balcony a few days ago. But perhaps I shouldn't bet on Rowena's involvement in this; perhaps Tamlin really doesn't want to see me. Perhaps I hurt him too much. And yet...

It's simpler, more convenient for my own heart, to believe _anything else_ over what would hurt me the most.

"Oh, look at you," Rowena smiles, spinning me around so that she can get a better look at me. "Don't you just look adorable."

I grimace, but I don't respond _—_ and if Rowena notices or even cares, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she continues to pat at my face with powder and a fluffy brush until my skin hardly feels like my own. And when my father enters my room with Auralis in tow, when the purple-and-gold of their elegant clothing glimmers in the fading light of the oncoming dusk, their presence does not ease the anxiety I feel swarming around in my stomach.

"We know we're early," Auralis drawls, the sound of his voice vaguely amused as the doors close behind them, "but we thought we'd cramp your style for a moment before we leave."

Thesan huffs with laughter, and then his eyes settle on me as he _really_ takes me in. And when he looks up at me...

The smile on his face is an _attempt_ to seem genuine. I look that bad, then. Wonderful.

"You're both in a very good mood, considering," I say darkly to them.

Thesan's smile doesn't falter; it remains just as uncomfortable. "It will do us no good looking miserable at this meeting, dove."

I release a breath, and I know very well that he's right. Pretending to be fine will perhaps be the worst part of this gathering _—perhaps,_ because I'll be in the company of High Lord Rhysand. And that will make pretending to be anything other than anxious difficult.

"Rowena," I hear Auralis say, "you can leave."

Rowena, beside me, blinks. "Perhaps I should _—_ "

"You can leave."

Rowena's lips press together in annoyance. She glances at my father as if expecting him to comment on his mate's tone, but Thesan does nothing—in fact, all he does is glance over me once more, and I can't tell whether the look in his eye is amusement or bewilderment. Perhaps both.

"Fine," Rowena responds. I think it's quite daring of her when she nods to my father in goodbye, but not to Auralis. "Lord," she says, glancing up at my father from her thick lashes, and when she makes to leave—

Rowena breezes past Auralis with a _hmpf._

And when the doors close behind her, when it's just the three of us—not including Margie, who purrs away at the end of my bed—I can't help the way my shoulders relax in her absence.

Silence. Peace.

Perfect.

"She seems quite fond of you," Auralis observes, and he glances across to my father in amusement.

Thesan sighs, a shake of his head following. "Leave her be, mate."

Auralis hums in consideration, and then his gaze returns to my form. There is warmth and light in his eyes as he takes a step towards me, and—

"If you want to change," Auralis murmurs, leaning towards me teasingly, "then we still have time before we leave."

"Oh, thank the Mother," I whisper to him, and I press a kiss to his cheek after. Relief—yes, relief, that's what that feeling is. Peace.

Have I mentioned how much I love Auralis?

"I had a dress in mind before... this," I tell them both, and I turn towards my wardrobe with far more energy than I've been able to muster up as of late. The ornate doors swing open and I spot the light purple fabric of the dress instantly; it's a low neckline which, regardless, remains elegant, because the material stops in a straight line as it meets the billowing skirt. Little flowers line where the neckline meets the skirt itself, details that are made up of white petals and vines of lilac and violet, and they also line the shoulders of the long sleeves—the long sleeves which are a beautiful sheer material, not unlike the pale mixture of white-and-purple which makes up the rest of the dress. It's beautiful... and perfectly _me._

A womanly dress. And despite my lack of energy lately, despite the low neckline and the way it leaves me somewhat bare, nothing will make it feel wrong.

Auralis helps me get the dress over my shoulders in the next room over, and I can't help the smile on my face when I see it in the mirror. After being ordered around by Rowena for so long, after being told what to do and what to eat and what to say...

It feels good to choose.

Rowena's presence had made things easier and difficult at the same time. But with Auralis around...

He's the support system I never knew I needed.

"There we go," he hums, tucking my hair gently behind my ear, "there's the beauty I've missed so."

Heat creeps up into my cheeks, and bashfully, I lower my gaze. "Stop it."

"I mean it," he insists softly, and when I spin around to face him, he takes my hands in his. "You've been so unlike yourself lately. Perhaps we should spend more time together—me, over Rowena."

Softly, I smile up at him. I never ask my father's mate to spend time with me simply because I always expect that he's busy—far too busy for me, a silly youngling with nothing better to do in her free time but read or tour the grounds or visit the towns surrounding the palace. But he is a friend as well as a father figure, somebody that I trust, and I would like nothing more than to get to know him a little more. To laugh with him. To spend time with him.

He is a good male. I certainly could have worse for a step-father.

Gently, I say with a smile, "I would like that very much."

Auralis smiles at me, and then—

From next door, I hear my father cough. "Are you two going to come out of there any time soon, or must we delay this meeting until you're both done talking?"

I roll my eyes, pulling away from Auralis, and I hear him chuckle in response. "Coming," I respond—

But Auralis' hands wrap around mine before I can actually make to leave.

"Remember," Auralis tells me, his eyes searching for something in my own, "that I'm just a seat away tonight. If you need me, if you're not feeling well, just keep your eyes on me. Or Thesan. It's up to you. You are safe—nothing will happen to you while I'm around. I promise."

I stare up at him with my eyes wide, quiet for a moment, and then—

I lean forward and wrap my arms around him—gently, lovingly.

"I love you," I whisper.

And slowly, eventually, Auralis' arms wrap around mine.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "I love you too, little dove."

And when we finally return to my bedchamber where my father awaits, it's not just him that smiles at me... but Cora, too.

Garbed in a black tunic and formal trousers that don't at all look like they should be on a female, she looks a mix of casual and formal, her hands slipped into the pockets of her trousers which are cut off by boots with intricate silver lining. Her long hair is braided down the side of her shoulder, purple shadow highlighting the green of her eyes, and as usual she looks beautiful... but there's something different about her. Is it the clothes? Certainly, they're not Dawn Court fashion; they look more like something Rhysand might wear, and that silver lining seems to line the edges of the tunic's collar, the sleeves of the top, the bottom of the hem. And...

And she wears it well.

Who got _this_ for her? And where in the Mother's name did they get it?

Because while it's not _too_ flashy, while it's not _too_ out there, Cora Emberglade doesn't often make much of an effort for anything. 

So why now?

"Cora?" I blink at her in welcome surprise, and then—a smile.

"For some reason, your dads let me come with you," she shrugs at me, a faint smile lining her own lips.

I look at Thesan, my smile still remaining. "You did this?"

He nods. "I thought it would be easier for you tonight if you had a friend with you."

I let out a huff of laughter, grateful for my father's thoughtfulness as I respond, "I'm surprised Aidos isn't coming, too."

Auralis glances at Cora. "I have Aidos doing some work for me. And between you and I..." He leans in close, teasing, "I'm not sure having Aidos at a sensitive dinner is the best of ideas."

I snicker. "Because he'll eat all the food, or because he's just that reckless?"

Auralis shrugs. "Both."

It's good to be laughing, which is certainly what I'm doing now. Before, in that dress, I'd felt like a puppet. But now, especially with Cora's presence...

Now, I feel just a _little_ more confident than before. And I'm going to cling onto that semblance of hope for as long as I can.

Cora raises her brows at us. "I'm surprised you even let _me_ come."

"Consider it Aurora's sway," Thesan jests, and for a moment, the four of us are happy _—_ content, gleeful, as laughter sounds between us.

And then we winnow, and the darkness of the Night Court is all that awaits.

The mountains, at least, are beautiful. Mighty winds send veins of snow drifting off the peaks like wandering mist, a perfect bed of terrain to contrast the sea of sparkling stars above us. The mounds of stone roll on endlessly, snow-capped tips of beauty, and despite my reluctance to be here, I'll be the first to admit that this is the most beautiful night sky I've ever seen. And the hall around us...

Perched atop one of the dark, ominously beautiful mounds of grey stone, the room is lined with pillars studded with gossamer curtains, with archways just like home. That, at least, makes me feel comfortable, and so too does the temperature of the room. Some sort of magic must keep the cold out, because here it's perfect: not too warm, not too chilly. Little relaxation areas are dotted about the hall, sectioned off with sheer curtains or lush plants or thick rugs which lie scattered across the moonstone floor. A few balls of light bob on the breeze, along with the glass lanterns which dangle from the arches of the ceiling.

No screaming. No shouting. No pleas of mercy, just as I had expected.

Just... peace.

Ahead of us, behind the members of the Night Court who greet us with cunning smiles, stands a wall of thick marble. The rest of the Night Court must be behind there. Is that why I can't hear any noise? Any screaming? Or is it magic that keeps it out?

Part of me is glad for it—the silence.

Part of me isn't.

I don't want to let my guard down here.

"Thesan," Rhysand greets my father, "welcome."

The High Lord of the Night Court looks the same as he usually does: tall and dark and dangerous, those horrible wings free and membranous and powerful. A crown of stars glitters atop his head, and beside him...

Feyre Archeron looks different to when I last saw her.

I had stayed far, far away from the High Lords meeting, and I had stayed even further away from the battle against Hybern's army. The last time I saw her...

It had been the same day I saw my father again after all those years.

The end of Amarantha's reign.

Feyre Archeron is a ghost and a saviour all at the same time, and I don't know how to feel about it. She looks radiant, beautiful, garbed in a beautiful pale blue dress which shimmers and sparkles, and her golden-brown hair glitters with beads of stars as it cascades down her back. She looks just as I would imagine the High Lady of the Night Court _sh_ _ould_ look.

Looking like this, I can’t ever imagine her as Lady—back then future Lady, I suppose—of the Spring Court.

What had happened to that female?

I’m not sure I want to know.

My father bows his head, a sign of respect. "Your invite is well received."

I avert my gaze, already uncomfortable, and Elain catches my eye. She smiles at me softly, and I find that it's easier than I expect to send one back in return.

It's easier, too, for my gaze to flicker over the other members of Rhysand's court: Azriel, who inclines his head to me, dressed this time in formal clothes as dark as night over Illyrian armour; a blonde, dressed in a top and skirt of shimmering burgundy, whose gaze is not focused on me but Cora; and a smaller female, High Fae, with cropped black hair and features not unlike many members of our court. Something about her tells me she's nowhere near as kind as somebody like Nuan, though.

"Dinner will be ready shortly," Feyre smiles warmly at us—at me.

I give my best attempt at smiling back.

Soon enough, the nine of us are lingering, conversating, likely before we're called to the oval table that sits behind us. My father and Auralis make private conversation with Rhysand, Feyre and the smallest member of Rhysand's court—and I'm relieved at that, because if Feyre decided to head straight for me I'm not sure that my heart could take it. No—it's Elain that approaches me first, Cora beside me, and the blonde from before follows her. So, too, does Azriel, although considering that shadows seem to gather around him like the mist on an early Spring morning, it takes me a while to notice him at all.

"You look beautiful!" Elain beams at me, and her fingers find mine as she comes to an excited stop in front of me. "That dress is wonderful. Your friend Rowena isn't here with you?"

I shake my head as a huff of weak laughter slips from my lips. "No, and thank the Mother for it."

Cora, beside me, chokes on her laughter. Elain's smile tells me that she isn't quite sure whether to blink at me in surprise or smile, but thankfully, the laugh that slips from her lips is natural enough.

The blonde glances between Elain and myself as she comes to a stop beside the softer Archeron. "Elain," she says, her smiling lips painted red, "I didn't know you and Aurora were friends."

"We met at the festival," I respond, an attempt to make an effort in our conversation—an attempt to better the chances of this meeting _not_ turning into chaos.

The blonde nods in understanding. "I'm Mor," she says to me by way of greeting, and extends a hand. I hate handshakes—they're far too personal, too icky, but I shake her hand anyway. "It's nice to finally meet you."

One beat; another—

I raise my brows. "Finally?"

Beside me, Cora goes straight. Mor glances between myself and Cora, and for a moment, I wonder if I'm missing something. But then—

"I mentioned what happened at the flower festival the other day," Azriel explains, his arms folding in front of his chest, and Mor's gaze snaps up to him in a way I don't quite understand. "And besides…”

"The rumours," I finish, my tone a little more confident than I expect from my own lips. "I understand."

Mor's smile falters somewhat, but Azriel remains unmoving. Beside me, Cora sucks in a breath and averts her gaze, but Elain—

"Which," Elain says, her fingers giving mine a gentle squeeze, "we trust aren't true. Especially since we had such a lovely time together at the flower festival."

My smile to her is soft. "You're too kind, Elain."

Elain turns to my guard—to Cora. "And your friend?"

“Oh,” I say, and a flush coats my cheek as embarrassment spreads within me—how _rude_ of me not to have introduced Cora as soon as Elain came over. “This is—” 

"Cora," Azriel responds, his tone cool and cold and mysterious.

I glance between the four of them: to Mor, then Cora, then Azriel, and finally to Elain, who looks just as lost as me. And I _know_ —part of me knows then that there's something going on, that there's something I don't know about, but I'll bring it up later. Maybe I'll even tease Cora about it if her reaction is of the right sort; if I don't get the sense that it's upsetting. I just hope it's nothing dark. That it's nothing to do with the rumours spreading around court. Because if it _was_ something of the sort...

I don't think I could take any more grief.

“Well,” Mor says slowly, “it’s a pleasure to have you both here. Although I _am_ quite upset we couldn’t have this little meeting at the Dawn Court instead. The sunsets there are to die for—especially considering what they do to my skin.”

To my surprise, I find myself smiling. “I quite like the dusk, too.” It’s small talk, certainly, but—at least it’s not painful. And…

And although I know that this Mor is likely no more than a vicious predator in surprise—she’s from the Night Court, after all—I feel comfortable in her presence. Somewhat. The revelation is a mix of worry and relief and all sorts of emotions I don’t really have time to place, not when the smell of food greets me a few long moments into conversation later.

It’s only then that I realise just how little I've eaten today. My nerves, my anxiety—it's all been too much to take more than a bite of a macaron. But the sight of the trays of food that the servants hold as they emerge from a door in that marble wall, the sight of the tendrils of steam that waft from them and the herbs that coat the food they come from... it makes my mouth water.

"Ooh! I _love_ lobster," Mor grins, and she near-bounces her way over to the oval table, decorated with candles and napkins made up of a material that is deep blue. “What are we having for dessert?”

In the distance, I see Feyre shake her head, and a faint smile of amusement lines her features at her friend’s excitement. "Please," she says, "take your seats—before Mor steals all the food," she jests.

Huffs of laughter stream through the hall, but I don't join in with my own. And as we approach the table and find our names, little scribbles of black ink etched onto little pieces of paper...

All I can hope for is that this dinner _doesn't_ end in the same steam as the trays that are set down upon the table's surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, beginning of the Night Court drama... what are your guys' thoughts so far? Comment and let me know! I can't wait to hear them! I feel like the flow is kind of Not So Great for this chapter, so sorry if it feels different at all!
> 
> Maybe it's the lack of Tamlin... I do love being in his head :P


	39. Aidos

As the night sky sparkles above me, I can't help but think that I’ve never been much of a spy.

I always thought I was too big to sneak. Too bulky. And yet as I find myself tiptoeing through the streets at night, the sun long since having set, I’m discovering that I’m not that bad at it at all. My muscles are pinned to the wall as if I’m made from nothing but shadow, or at least, that’s how I hope I look—because the last thing I need is for my target to get spooked, for him to flee, especially when I’m so close to finding out the answers that I need.

I’m doing this for Aurora—I’m doing this because I want her to feel safe here again, away from that High Lord. She should be away from him; she should be here, here where I can protect her, where I can make sure she’s safe; where maybe, just maybe, I might find the confidence to muster up a way to tell her just how much I care for her—

Because while Auralis and Cora play politician, I’ve been hunting Sabah. Following him. And this time, unlike all the other times we’ve watched him collectively… this time, I’m getting somewhere—this time, the timing is _right._

Movement. Out of the corner of my eye I spy blue robes, a flash of gold, the jingle of jewellery.

I’ve got him.

I pace forward, not even trying to hide the sound of my heavy steps now, and before he has time to react I’m reaching out a fist to wrap it around his robes, pulling, lifting—

Sabah squeaks, fear wafting from him in waves, and I slam him against the wall with a little too much force than necessary.

“Please!” He begs, “I don’t have any money!”

“I’m not looking for your money, you fool,” I growl, “I want information.”

It only takes a few moments for Sabah’s panic to clear—for him to realise who I am. For him to realise who he’s dealing with. My name isn’t spoken amongst the warriors in the war camps, but it’s certainly spoken in the Dawn Court and the lands around it. The Captain himself picked me to guard Aurora—that means something.

“Oh,” he says, paling, “oh, no.”

“Oh no indeed, Sabah.”

“Whatever it is you think I did—“

“I’ve been following you for days. Don’t try and bullshit me.”

Sabah closes his eyes, starts mumbling some sort of prayer, and a growl of annoyance has me covering his mouth with my hand.

“Shut up,” I snarl, “and listen to me. I’m going to ask you questions.”

Sabah shakes his head, a muffled whimper of objection ringing out from behind my hand, but I ignore him. If he licks me, though, I swear—

“Why are you spreading those rumours, hm?”

Sabah keeps shaking his head, suddenly thrashing in an attempt to break free. I pin his shoulder to the wall with my other hand.

“One of the Dawn Court’s closest allies is the Night Court,” I tell him. “Do you know how deadly spreading that shit around really is? How stupid it is? How likely it is to cause a damn _war_ ? And as if Aurora would ever— _ever_ betray her father like that…” I shake my head. “They’re starting to say that Tamlin and Aurora are working together to send a _force_ into Night court territory. Because of you.”

Slowly, slowly, Sabah stops thrashing—merely stares at me, his brows furrowed, alarm in his eyes.

“But you already know that, don’t you?”

Sabah goes still.

“I thought so. Now,” I say slowly, menacingly, “I’m going to move my hand, and if you scream, I’ll make sure it’s the last sound you ever make.” I run a finger down his jaw, down his throat— “Do you want to know how I’ll do it?”

Sabah whimpers, shaking his head. I raise my brows, a silent warning that I’m not messing around, and then slowly, _slowly,_ I move my hand away from his mouth— 

“I didn’t know,” he gasps, his breathing fast, and he continues, “if I knew it would get that serious—“

“You spread them regardless.”

“Yes, but I—”

Another shove against the wall. Sabah’s whimper is choked now.

“You spread them for Rowena,” I say quietly, dangerously, “because you’re nothing but a coward. And now you’ve caught the attention of the Captain himself. So here’s a choice for you: you can tell me just what Rowena wants at the end of all this, or you can flee now and Auralis will send a Peregryn commando unit to track you down. And I can guarantee you it won’t be pretty. So,” I hum, “it’s your choice.”

Sabah’s eyes go wide. “You,” he responds breathily, “I’ll talk to you.”

“Good. Now, I’m waiting.”

Sabah glances about, takes a deep breath, and then—

“Rowena. Rowena… she wanted… she wanted to hurt Aurora, t-to… to get back at her for insulting her.”

I frown. “That can’t just be it.”

Sabah grimaces. “I’ve already said too much—“

I inch closer. Another thrust against the wall awaits him should he defy me, and he knows it. The courtier winces.

“Power,” he admits. “She wants—she wants power. To birth the child of a High Lord.”

For a moment I just stare at him, my lips parted, and I try to make the words make sense. Thesan is mated—Thesan doesn’t even _like_ women. And yet…

Oh, Heavens. The thought of her forcing something like that on him—

It makes me sick. And _angry._ The thought that anybody would wish to do something so foul to my High Lord— 

“Thesan is mated,” I say, barely containing my anger. “And he’s not in the habit of spending his nights with female companions.”

Sabah says, “He did it once before.”

“Haven’t you heard the rumours?” I hiss.

Sabah’s eyes darken. “Yes,” he responds, “I have. And they are just that: rumours.”

I’ve seen the way the Captain looks at Aurora, though. I was raised on tales of witches from another world, witches who could do anything they dreamed, summon anything they dreamed—

 _Create_ anything they dreamed.

Witches who could harness the power of the Cauldron themselves.

I push the thought from my head, instead speaking once more. “There’s still the matter of the Captain. Rowena won’t get rid of him so easily.”

Sabah just stares.

I stare back, and then—

Dread.

“No.”

“She wishes to.”

“If there is a threat to his life—“

“You’re lucky these rumours about Aurora have spread. They averted her attention, put a pause to her wicked plans—“

“Lucky?” I hiss, my face mere inches from his. “ _Lucky?_ Lucky that there’s a plot to kill the mate of the High Lord?”

Sabah merely shrugs. “It is a matter of perspective.”

“So she wants to cause a war, to kill Thesan’s mate, to have a male who doesn’t even desire females at her every beck and call—“

“Not a war. That doesn’t serve in her best interests.”

“It’s what she’ll get, Sabah,” I growl at him, pushing him forcefully back into the wall in one final display of anger before I step away. “It’s how it’s looking.”

Sabah doesn’t even move from the wall—a wise decision. “And what am I supposed to do about it?”

I clench my teeth. 

I shouldn’t face her alone. Not with Auralis and Cora away. But if I don’t do this now—if I let Sabah go free and he warns her somehow, if she gets a chance to prove herself falsely innocent; if she has a chance to hide any evidence of her wrongdoings— 

“You’re going to come with me,” I tell him— _order_ him, “and we are going to confront Rowena. We’re going to tell her that her plans are ruined, and if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll hand herself in.”

“She won’t—”

“You can either come with me,” I say darkly, “and do the right thing, or be chased from the Dawn Court entirely. And when people come for you, it will either be Auralis’ Peregryn or Rowena’s assassins. It’s your choice.”

I extend a hand to him, waiting, and then…

To my surprise, he takes it.

I give him a look then—one of approval, of affirmation, and perhaps there’s a little bit of hope in there, too. He stares back with apprehension, the kind that makes me feel a little guilty about manhandling him so much, so I pull him to me a little gentler when it’s time to hold him close.

Because in the next instance my arms are around him and I am soaring, flying up into the sky, and not even Sabah’s fear as he yelps and squirms can shake my resolve as my eyes lock onto the observatory tower.

Tonight, I’m going to take Rowena down— 

Tonight, I’ll put an end to this web of lies entirely. 


	40. Aurora

As much as I hate to admit it, the Night Court certainly knows how to host a party.

From the decorations to the food—grilled lobster tails served with lemon and parsley and butter, at least for our starter—everything is perfect. Even the seating plan works: Cora to my right; Morrigan beside her; the smaller one, Amren, to her right; then Feyre, then Rhysand, then my father and Auralis and Azriel, and then finally to my left sits Elain. All of us speak of our home lives, of what we’ve missed, of how we’ve been doing—we speak as if it’s a casual conversation and not a political meeting. 

Then again, I suppose that _is_ what politics is—masked comments and insults, questions and answers. I’m certain there’s a lot of it going on around me, definitely between my parents and the High Lord and Lady of this Court, and I have never been more glad to have been seated far away from them. I might have contributed to this mess, but if I was sitting over there…

I’d have no idea what was going on. I’m content to speak with Elain and Cora, sometimes even Azriel when he takes part in our conversation; Mor, too, makes the occasional comment, and I’m surprised at how well she and Cora get along, the banter they have, despite not knowing one another. But let my parents do the damage control—let them handle this. They’re far older, far wiser, and I sometimes wonder if my brain is just too slow to even be able to wrap my head around underhanded comments, to wrap my head around plots and schemes. 

But as the evening goes on and we engage in more and more small talk, as I feel my mix of emotions welling and twisting and warping, as I feel myself growing more and more unsettled without a reason why…

I realise that everything is perfect—everything except one thing.

I can feel him. Rhysand. Lurking—lingering in my brain. He's in my head, and that irritates me to no bounds.

Does he not think I'd remember the feel of those adamantium claws?

Because I do.

And it is _enraging._

If he wants to be in my head, _fine._ But if he expects me to sit there and deal with it, to be a pretty little thing and take it—like all those years ago...

He has another thing coming.

And so as they all sit there talking, laughing… I can feel myself quietly seething. 

Yes, everything was perfect—everything was going well, everybody was getting _along_ well—right up until this moment. Because while earlier everything had been fine, now… now, all I feel is rage.

My knuckles are white around my fork now as I glare at my food, our main course having long since been delivered. My teeth are clenched, too, as Mor and Cora make quiet conversation to my right, as Elain chatters away to me and Azriel quietly observes our conversation.

“—And I was afraid I was too forward,” Elain tells me, a continuation of the story she’s been telling me—the story she’s been wanting my advice on. “You don’t think so, do you?” 

I shake my head, but my gaze…

Glued to Rhysand. And if he notices my eyes on him, if he has felt an inkling of the rage inside of my head, he does nothing about it.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Elain breathes in relief. “Because—and forgive me if this _is_ too forward, but you and I seem somewhat alike—I thought to myself the other day, if anyone will understand how I felt in that moment it might be Aurora, and—” 

I don’t hear the rest. I’m not sure how long it is until I hear her say my name again, but when I do, she must have asked me a question, because— 

“Aurora?” Elain frowns, likely expecting an answer from me—an answer that isn’t coming. “What do you think?”

But Rhysand is saying something, something that makes my father huff with laughter, and it infuriates me—it infuriates me that my father can _joke_ with somebody who hurt me like that. And before I know it the words are tumbling from my mouth, quiet despite the chatter that rings through the room. quiet despite the volume of voices above my own—

"Did you miss being in my head that much, Rhysand?"

And suddenly, all conversation, despite the volume, comes to a halt. 

Even the temperature of the room seems chillier, the breeze that had before seemed friendly now icy, unwelcoming. Is it my tone that did that, or is it simply Rhysand bristling as the temperature adjusts to his mood?

One beat, two, three—

"Aurora," my father warns. His tone is a warning in itself; one of discipline, one of authority.

But as Rhysand's gaze turns to me, I might as well have not heard my father speak. Because my anger now is untameable—it is built up of years of torture, of years of torment, and while having to face this male had filled me with fear before, all I feel now is rage. It's a rage that fills me with confidence—fight or flight, I estimate, and this time, my body has chosen fight.

I have the right to fight. To be angry. I'll be angry because some days it seems that anger all I have left. And as I sit at this table and play nice with these people—the ridiculous amount of people that Rhysand has in attendance like a childish posse—I cannot keep it in any longer. I can play nice with these people, but I will _not_ let them— _him_ —disrespect my boundaries.

"If you have a question," I tell him quietly, dangerously, my eyes unmoving from his own, "then just ask it. I'll tell you all you want to know."

I stare at Rhysand, and he stares back. His gaze is piercing, unreadable.

"Very well," he says.

But as he sits back in his chair, Feyre's hand slips over his own. Whatever she does to make him pause, whatever she makes him reconsider, it gives my father a chance to speak.

"Please," Thesan says, exasperated, "forgive my daughter. She has not been feeling herself lately."

Amren says coolly, "The rumours would certainly suggest so.”

I turn to her, my jaw clenched. "Those aren't true."

"The ones in regards to your relationship with Tamlin certainly were.”

There’s a pause, a pause as I feel my anger flare; a pause as I feel my temper rising, about to shatter anyone and anything around me— 

"Rumours," the High Lady speaks firmly, her fingers still laid gently over Rhysand's, "are rumours."

I take a breath and look right at her, my gaze defiant—unwavering.

Feyre continues, "We are here to show that those rumours mean nothing, regardless of whatever the nature of Aurora's relationship with… Tamlin… might be. We're not here to point fingers, Amren."

I’m furious still, my thoughts swarmng inside my head, but—Feyre’s words had helped. A little. Amren's arms fold but she says nothing afterwards, and Feyre and I exchange a look—a look that I can't quite place. And before I know it she’s speaking, her gaze on me—she’s speaking words _for_ me— 

"I know there's history between yourself and my mate," Feyre says, her gaze soft and yet at the same time firm, "and I can’t speak for him about what happened under there. But I know that all he has ever shown me is how sorry he is—how much he wishes he could change what happened." Her gaze shifts to Rhysand. "I know he thinks he doesn't deserve forgiveness, and because of that, he won't ask for it. But all we want is to do is live—live anew," Feyre says, her gaze returning to me, "and put the past behind us."

My gaze lingers on her a little longer, my mood less furious now, and slowly, coherent thought begins to return to me. It’s not an apology from Rhysand, no, but it’s likely the closest thing to one I’ll ever get. And it doesn’t make any of it alright—it doesn’t make any of what happened okay. And I do not forgive him. But for now—for this dinner, for the Dawn Court… 

I let out a breath, and I'm silent as my gaze averts to my food—silent as I say, "Sorry."

And I hope Feyre knows that I am sorry for my outburst, at how rude it was— _not_ that I am sorry for taunting her mate. Because I’m not.

Rhysand, beside Feyre, inclines his head. "As am I."

My gaze shoots to him, my brows slightly furrowed, and I’m sure he doesn’t need to read my mind to tell of my confliction in regards to his… apology. Indeed, mere seconds ago I had doubted that I would ever get one from him—that he would ever apologise for _anything_ —but… although it doesn’t fix anything, although his apology doesn’t seem entirely genuine, it’s… not the worst thing to hear those words slip from his lips.

"Okay," Morrigan says slowly, "but can we _please_ address this? Sorry, Thesan, for asking this, but—Aurora... I've been _dying_ to know just what is true and what isn't; I mean, with Tamlin."

I swallow as I look at her, pausing. Do I even want to speak of this? Is it right to speak of this here? But… I suppose since Mor is part of their little Inner Circle, since she’s _asking_ this in the first place— 

Eventually, I say gently, "I think it might be easier if you ask a question."

Beside Rhys, I see my father rub the bridge of his nose; Auralis, meanwhile, stares at me as if to say _don’t._ But what good is going to come of refusing to speak of this? Certainly, If I’m honest it might make me seem naive, but… I don’t _care._ I’m sick of lies, sick of deceit, sick of ignoring my feelings—it’s all I’ve done lately, at least in regards to refraining from writing from my mate— 

"Why," Azriel mutters, "would be a good place to start."

I look at him, displeasure in my gaze, and I swear Mor shoots him a glare as I say, "He's not that bad."

"He helped turn two human girls into Fae against their will," Azriel argues back, his gaze on me unyielding, "and sided with Hybern to do it. I think that warrants a certain amount of distrust."

Silence, and then— 

"Let her speak," Elain says quietly, her voice a mere whisper.

Elain glances across at me, swallowing thickly, and I swear all eyes in the room briefly move to her. I flash her a smile of gratitude, soft and warm and kind, before I take a breath.

"I winnowed there by accident one day," I explain, already embarrassed, but I refuse to bow my head as I say, "because I'm still... learning. I'm learning a lot after... everything. But he helped me get home. I mean, he wasn't nice at first, but then he was. But now... we're not talking now, so none of you need to worry. Not that you needed to before." 

I shoot Rhysand a pointed glance, and then I avert my gaze to Feyre. 

I continue, "I know you have history with him, but he doesn't harbour any negative intentions. I can tell you that much. He just... he wants to be left alone. In peace. And regardless of whether any of you believe he deserves that, it's what he wants."

I glance between all of them then, although I try to avoid the gazes of my fathers. I don't need them to throw me off. Everybody is deathly still, and I can’t tell whether they’re simply listening intently or anticipating some sort of outburst, whether it be from Rhysand or Azriel or perhaps even Feyre. And as I look at her… 

I wonder what she’s thinking. What’s going through her brain? I don't want us to fight over a male, no matter how valid her trauma is; I don't want Feyre to think that I might harbour any dislike towards her, that I might take Tamlin's side in regards to anything that happened between them.

Females should support females. Whatever happened between them, whatever went wrong, I'll take her side—and I'd tell Tamlin that, too. But that doesn't mean I won't support him through his trauma, either.

And before I know it the words are tumbling, slipping from my lips, more confidently than before—

"I'm not good at speaking between the lines or—being secretive. I care very little for secrets or anything of the sort," I say, glancing to Azriel, "and I don't care for courtly games and I don't care for deceit. But I don't want any of you to think that I am an enemy for trying to show a broken male an ounce of kindness. And I would never," I continue, my gaze returning to Feyre, "ask you to forgive him, or be kind to him, or do anything that would invalidate how you feel. 

Whatever you choose, whatever you have chosen, I'll support you in that choice. You're _valid_ in that choice, because I cannot and will not ever be able to understand what you went through to lead you here. But I would _never_ ," I insist, my voice wavering, "want you to think that by being close to Tamlin I would think that you are anything other than brave, and kind, and selfless. Because I respect you. We are _here_ because of you. And no matter how much I might care for him, no male will dampen the respect—the gratitude—that I have for you."

I stare at Feyre—truly stare at her, that sparkling beauty that has been through so much, has _done_ so much, and I watch as tears well in her eyes even as my own blur with them. And then she nods; she swallows and nods, and I know from the way that she averts her gaze to the table that she is trying to hide the emotion in her eyes, in her form.

"Thank you," she says, her voice filled with emotion, and that is all I need to hear.

I nod, and then I turn to Mor pointedly—not unkindly, but firmly, as if I am a female not to be messed with despite my tears. "Was there anything else?"

Slowly, barely, Mor shakes her head. It’s quiet again, and then— 

"I think the food is getting cold,” Cora mutters.

And to my relief, the huffs of laughter that slip from our lips cut through the tension entirely.


	41. Aidos

I’ve never been to Rowena’s tower before.

Why should I visit? I’m not one for religion, and I definitely have nothing in common with her followers. But it’s the stark silence that greets us that makes me uncomfortable as we land, as Sabah breathes a breath of relief at the feel of his feet on solid ground once more. And when he parts from me, when he stumbles over to a loveseat with his dark features a few shades paler, I know he’s not a threat. That I'm free to assess the room around me.

Plants—plants upon plants at every corner of the room. They might make a good hiding place in some areas where the brush grows tall... in the right circumstance, of course. Lanterns are dotted about the arches of the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze, and they cast a warm, barely illuminated glow about the entirety of the open circular room. Desks and chairs and tables are scattered about the corners, and I wonder just how Rowena managed to commandeer an entire tower for herself as my gaze returns to Sabah.

“Where is she?” I demand, frowning.

Sabah sighs, and he looks at me exasperatedly as he responds, “I don’t know.”

“If you’re not telling me something—”

Sabah raises his hands. “I’ve told you everything I know. She doesn’t—she doesn’t tell me everything. You have to believe me.”

And for better or for worse, I do.

I let out a low rumble of dissatisfaction as I look around the room. “Where does she keep her things?”

Sabah hesitates, his fingers wringing together. “Why?”

I look at him pointedly. “For proof, Sabah. What else?”

But the Priestess’ follower merely swallows thickly. “Perhaps we should—”

“Where,” I say quietly, menacingly, “does she keep her stuff, Sabah.”

Sabah closes his eyes, and there’s a grimace on his features as he says, “There’s a locked drawer under her desk.”

“And within it?”

“Please don’t make me—”

“Sabah.”

“Letters,” he whimpers—and then slumps into the seat behind him. “Letters from her contacts.”

For a moment, I merely stare at him—stare at the mess that Rowena has made of him. I remember how Sabah had looked when he had first arrived at the Dawn Court: young, naive, full of hope—not unlike Aurora herself. I remember because Apollo had teased me about Sabah’s good looks, about the way he looked in the light of the dawn, and I’d been insanely jealous. But I remember—Sabah had been excited to work alongside a High Priestess, excited to have the honour of working for one of the Mother’s holy daughters, excited for a new life in Dawn—

And looking at him now, I wonder whether he regrets that decision. Did he think the Priestesses were genuinely holy and loving?

Perhaps there are some out there, but I’ve never met one.

“Why still work for her?” I ask, still frowning. “I’ve seen how she speaks to you.”

Sabah flinches. “She is the High Priestess.”

“And the Captain gives me orders. But if he gave me a bad one, I wouldn’t go ahead with it.”

“It’s not that easy. She has—she has followers, spies, assassins—they’re _everywhere,_ and—”

“And once you’re in you can’t get out,” I murmur.

Slowly, Sabah nods.

I guess I can understand it, even if I don't agree with it. And I can't help but feel sorry for him. What would I have done if signing up to serve the High Lord's court hadn't been as I imagined? How would life have turned out for me if I hadn't met Apollo at training all those decades ago; Apollo, who was just as hopeful and reckless as me?

I force a sharp intake of breath, and then my eyes settle on the desk once more. I make my way over to it as I say, “After this, Sabah, you’ll be—” 

“Sabah,” a voice purrs from the doorway—a voice I recognise. “You brought me a guest?”

Rowena.

I turn to her slowly, warily, my hand ghosting over the hilt of my sword. Rowena doesn’t fail to notice the movement. She stands in the doorway that leads to the circular room, a flight of steps just barely illuminated behind her, and in her hands—

Margie.

Aurora’s cat.

“Rowena,” I say slowly, a hand moving to splay in front of me somewhat, “put the cat down.”

“Why?” She smiles at me. “So you can do with me as you see fit?”

I open my mouth to speak, but Rowena gets there first—and her eyes darken as she does so, as her gaze turns to Sabah. 

“Don’t think I don’t know of your betrayal,” she says—calmly, surprisingly calmly. “Your conversation in the streets wasn’t as quiet as you think it was, you idiots.” She sneers at me. “ _Males._ ”

Sabah whimpers. Maybe if I try another angle, another way of doing this—

I need to get right to the point, since that's what Rowena seems so keen on doing.

“Come with me and confess what you’ve done,” I demand of her, “and Thesan might go easy on you.”

Rowena blinks at me, her fingers scratching gently at Margie’s neck, and the cat struggles a bit in her hold—but Rowena doesn’t let go. Margie’s a good cat, a friendly cat, but she has a great sense of who's right to like and who's right to dislike—and Rowena—

She’s never liked Rowena.

And in Rowena’s steely hold, as she struggles to get out of Rowena’s arms, she looks more than uncomfortable.

“You really think it’s that easy?” Rowena smiles at me.

Something in me turns chilly at her words.

“It should be,” I force myself to bite back at her, my gaze flickering between Margie and Rowena. _Not the cat, not the cat—_ but she knows Aurora cares for that animal, and by extension so do I. It's the entire reason that she brought her here, most likely: she's using Margie as a shield. “It should be if you’re really as smart as you think. If you’re smart enough to do this the easy way. But something in me tells me you’re not that smart at all.”

Rowena snarls at me, “You know _nothing_ of my life, bird.”

I ignore the slur, instead trying to bite down the sudden flare of my temper—something which has never been easy for me. “Perhaps not. But I know enough.”

“Do you?” She quips, her brows rising. “What proof do you have that I am anything other than innocent?”

It’s my turn to smile at her now—my turn to keep my cool. “Sabah was very forthcoming.”

Sabah whimpers, “Please—”

“Silence,” Rowena hisses, jutting her head in his direction before she looks back at me. “I’ll deal with you later.”

And although she’s looking at me when she says it, I know she means Sabah.

But I won’t let Rowena hurt anyone anymore. Aurora, Sabah, and Cauldron, even Margie— 

“One last chance,” I tell her. “I’ll give you one last chance before Thesan exiles you, or worse. He might have let the spreading rumours part of your treachery slide, but when the safety of his mate is threatened…”

Slowly, dangerously, Rowena’s face drains of colour.

And I know then that I’ve got her in a sticky spot indeed.

But the way she stands completely still, the way she holds Margie effortlessly to her as the cat scratches, hisses—

There's something alien about it. Something unnatural. And it does not bode well for the feeling stirring in my gut.

Slowly, she turns to look at Sabah. “You told him this.”

Sabah sobs, and he slips off the lounge seat as he falls to his knees, begging, “Please—please, I had no choice—” 

“You don’t think I’m smart enough to win?” Rowena hisses, her lips curling into a snarl as she looks back at me. “You don’t think I know how to play these games?”

“Rowena—”

“Fine,” she growls, “fine. I’ll show you a winning move.”

I step forward, an attempt to approach, to grab for her, to brace for impact—

She winnows away.

She leaves only Margie in her wake; Margie, who runs to hide under the very love-seat that Sabah had slipped from seconds before.

And as I stare at the spot she’d disappeared from, as I clench my hand around my sword in anger— 

I have the terrible feeling that this is the calm before the storm.

Because if she left Margie; if she left the cat she _knows_ I won’t harm, the thing she's using as leverage… 

Then what is she going to do next?


	42. Aurora

When dinner ends and we all see fit to mingle again, it almost feels comfortable.

Almost—because as much as Feyre has been kind to me, Rhysand still unsettles me. At least, as the six of us—myself, Elain, Morrigan, Amren, Cora and Feyre—settle down into a plush seating area with a table in between, I'm able to relax. We haven't long since unintentionally separated into male and females groups when the questions start, most of them cleverly phrased questions about Tamlin, and I feel terrible about answering them—if only because I do not want to upset Feyre by doing so.

I have no idea how extensive her trauma is; how much of Tamlin hurts her. And although I cannot imagine Tamlin doing anything truly terrible to another person, not intentionally, I am careful in my answers nonetheless—the majority of which are answers to questions that Mor herself asks me. But there's one question, one question that I'm not at all prepared for—

"Are you really mates?"

"Mor," Cora says under her breath.

My eyes widen and I glance quickly over to Auralis, to my father— 

Cora says quietly, "Her parents don't know."

Mor grimaces. "Sorry. But… you said you'd fallen out?"

Slowly, with another glance over to my parents, I nod. "He had other ideas. About... what it meant. For us."

Elain says quietly, her voice just a whisper, "You refused it."

I nod just a little, flashing her a tight, sad smile. "Something like that."

And then—a flash of red, of orange. Lucien appears at the other end of the hall, right where the four of us had winnowed in before, and... 

I can't help but beam at the sight of him. I've missed him more than I realise; I missed how he makes me smile, the way he has the ability to force the strongest of laughs from my stomach. But why is he here?

"Lucien," I greet him, shooting up with a wide smile, "I didn't know you would be attending."

Lucien smiles in response. "I wasn't sure if I would be able to." 

He crosses the room to reach the little seating area where myself and the other females sit, and then he inclines his head in greeting to them. His eyes linger on somebody in particular, but I don’t see. And then he smiles at me.

“It seems I managed to make it just in time,” Lucien quips.

I let out a laugh. “It’s good to see you.”

"I, on the other hand," Cora retorts, and I look back at her to see that she takes a sip of her wine before she continues, "am not at all pleased to see you here."

Lucien's gaze narrows on her. "I can and _will_ tell everyone about the time you fell in the lake with the water wraiths and started screaming like a damsel in distress as soon as they touched you."

Cora chokes on her wine, and I grin as Morrigan’s brows rise, an amused smile coating her red lips. But Feyre...

At Lucien’s arrival, Feyre has taken the opportunity to relocate to one of the archways lining the hall. The pale blue of her dress glitters just like the stars ahead of her as she stands in the moonlight, and the sight of her stood so isolated from everyone else makes me press my lips together with worry. Am I the reason she excused herself from our conversation? I certainly hope not—making her uncomfortable had been the very _reason_ I hadn’t wanted to discuss Tamlin in depth. 

"Excuse me," I say, my hand gently finding Lucien's forearm. If he protests as I move away from him, I don’t hear him—instead, I make my way with soft steps over to the High Lady of the Night Court. 

"I'm sorry if any of this made you uncomfortable," I say to her in gentle greeting.

Feyre’s smile is tense. "No," she responds, and then she turns to me as she takes in a deep breath, “you didn’t.”

I don’t respond. I get the feeling that there’s more to her statement—that there is more she has to say.

I’ll give her the time to say it.

“You know,” she continues after a while, “once I looked at somebody who looked a lot like you and thought about how _she_ looked how Tamlin’s mate should look. And you…”

My heart thuds amidst her hesitation. Heat coats my cheeks; heat that I desperately wish that I could hide— 

Feyre continues, “You look exactly like… what I imagined.”

I take my time in responding, mostly because I’m trying to wrap my head around what she means. Is she… doubting herself? She couldn’t be. Is she jealous? No—it’s got to be something else. Maybe…

Tamlin still holds onto the memory of Feyre. I know that much, and there’s a small part of me that envies her for that, but a larger part of me understands—a larger part of me loves him despite it. I understand how much of a lasting effect something like seeing a loved one die—and come back to life—can have on a person. Perhaps... although there's trauma there, certainly... perhaps some part of Feyre still holds onto the memory of the male she had first loved when she arrived in Prythian.

The male she went through so much with.

And of all the things I could say, all the things I could muster up— 

“He still loves you,” I say quietly.

Feyre grimaces. 

She turns to face the mountains rolling ahead of us, and I, too, turn that way—mostly so that she doesn’t feel as if I’m staring at her.

Feyre says, “I know.”

I lower my gaze. More mountains, a steep drop below, some rocks lining the edges of the hall— 

She continues, “I’m sorry.”

I blink up at her, and I find that her contrasting gaze meets my own as I ask, “Why should you be?”

Her smile is more like another grimace. “Does it cause problems?”

I hesitate for a moment, thinking, pondering. And then—I shake my head. “No.” Another pause—another moment to take my time, a moment in which I return my gaze to the mountains ahead of us. “Not in the way that you think. He still grieves for you, yes, but it doesn’t upset me. I understand—and of course although I understand your pain too, the fact that you feel far more comfortable here and that you found your mate, I understand his own. He lost the female he loved twice now—perhaps more. It can have a lasting effect on someone.”

Feyre responds, “He didn’t help himself when it came to losing me.”

I nod. “I know.”

Feyre’s attention is keen on me as she says, “He told you about it.”

I shake my head. “No, but I understand the gist of it. And I don’t… think it’s any of my business to know. That stays between you and him.”

Feyre is quiet again; quiet for a long time, likely thinking over everything I’ve said, and then— “I think if I asked you how you could fall for somebody like that I’d be a hypocrite,” Feyre says.

I take a breath. “He’s kind to me.”

“He was kind to me once, too.”

I turn to look at her, my eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to involve your history in our relationship.”

And then—as Feyre’s brows furrow, I sigh. My gaze lowers once more as I continue, “Not that there’s much left of it, anyway.”

Feyre’s head tilts, and she’s quiet for a few seconds before she says, “Because you refused the bond.”

“Not officially,” I respond a little too quickly, “but yes.”

Feyre responds, “He never was good with the word no.”

I turn to her with a clenched jaw. “He’s been nothing but good to me—respectful.”

Feyre closes her eyes, and a sigh slips from her lips a moment later. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aurora. It’s just… there was a time where things were difficult for us. I don’t want that for you—for him.” And she pauses for a moment before she turns to me, turns her body to me, and continues, “He locked me in the house. He was so afraid of losing me that he locked me up, and that was when it became too much. I’m just trying to make sure that doesn’t—that it hasn’t happened to you already.”

Some part of that tells me that she cares. Perhaps not for me, not in the same way that Cora does, but... she cares for me. Female to female. From a distance. I get the feeling that she wants nothing to do with our relationship, and that comforts me. But I think... if I'm right about her, then Feyre just wants to know that I'm _safe._

So how do I prove to her that I really am?

I pause briefly, and then— “Do you feel safe here?”

Feyre hesitates, likely wondering where the question came from. "I do.”

I nod, turning back to the mountains once more. “That’s how I feel about Spring. Dawn is… there’s a lot happening in Dawn right now. Spring is an escape from all of that, and… and I think you might understand my situation, how I feel about Spring and Tamlin, if… if you know that Spring to me is likely what Night is to you.”

Feyre’s chin tilts slowly upwards as she takes me in, and there’s a certain worry in her eyes when she says, “That changes nothing.”

I press my lips together, thinking, and then— “It’s peaceful between us, Feyre. Or it was before I messed it up. I’ve never felt comfort like it. And I promise you that I will take your words to heart, and I truly appreciate your concern—female to female. But I have to make my own decision in this. And trust me when I say that sometimes his reputation overwhelms me, but…” I give a gentle shrug of my shoulders, one that speaks of weariness, of a hatred of having to explain my reasons for caring for Tamlin as if he _doesn't_ deserve kindness. “I wouldn’t be this far today if I hadn’t trusted my intuition when it comes to him. And so far, despite this little… hiccup, it’s been good.” 

For a while Feyre merely watches me, her head tilted, and then…

She smiles. It’s small and weak, barely convincing, but it’s there. And I know that while things between us might not be _perfect,_ that it’s unlikely that we’ll ever be best friends—and it would be inappropriate for us to be, too—things might just be alright for now.

Her words simply stem from worry for my safety. And I appreciate them. But if I had listened to rumours of Tamlin long ago, I wouldn’t have had those amazing moments that I already have had with him.

And I love him. I love him so much.

What would my life be without him?

What is it now?

And I know then…

I know that tonight—if not tonight then tomorrow— 

I have to see him.

And as Feyre nods and her smile gets just a little bit more convincing, I know that things between the High Lady and I might not ever be _fine._ That nothing I can say will convince her that I'm safe, that I love Tamlin, that he's been kind to me. Not after what she went through. But I can't worry about what she or anyone else thinks—I haven't done it before, and I won't do it now. Just like I will never, ever be able to believe that Rhysand is anything other than foul and cunning, Feyre will never be able to see past the things that she has seen Tamlin do. But I haven't seen those.

And so while there are those around us who would only delve deep enough to see the parts of my High Lord that pain him so, the parts of him that he cannot hide, I will not be the one who stops delving deeper. I will not be the one who gives up on the journey to the treasure trove on the other side of that deep, dangerous cavern.

But maybe...

Maybe I can start to build a bridge.

And so as the night comes to a close and things around myself and Feyre get softer, less awkward and more comfortable, I have hope for the future.

Peace starts with the Night Court and ends with Spring.

I know I lie somewhere in the middle of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I'm not feeling so hot about it, probably because of the mere fact that nothing Aurora can say will actually make Feyre feel CONFIDENT about her situation, so I'm pretty sure that's just Aurora reflecting on me. But please let me know what you liked or even what you didn't like about this chapter! Your comments make my day, so comment away!!
> 
> Love you guys. Next chapter is big!


	43. Rowena, Aidos and Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally got this chapter proof read because I was so nervous about posting this. Shoutout to Sunny for your love, help and kind words!
> 
> If you enjoy it, it would mean the world to me if you commented to let me know!
> 
> Happy reading <3

> _ROWENA..._

If that bird-brained imbecile thinks he can stop me, he has another thing coming.

He wants to test me?

Fine. 

I'll admit I hadn't thought it would come to this; I hadn't thought that some nosy Peregryn would put a stop to my plans. But I've prepared for this very moment—although perhaps not as much as I should have—and if he thinks this is the end, he's sorely mistaken. I might not have all the details planned out, might not have the _time_ to, but I know enough. It's enough to draw any blame from myself. And it'll be easy enough to frame Aidos when the time comes—to involve him in the plans that Auralis is rumoured to be involved in so heavily.

After all, what better time for Aidos to run and take with him Aurora, the female he loves so possessively, than after an excursion to the Night Court—an excursion in which everyone is asleep and unaware?

And when all eyes to turn to him for the blame, when all eyes look to _him_ in regards to Aurora's upcoming disappearance, he will rue the day he came after me. Whatever investigation Aidos has going on, whoever he has involved... they won't spare a single glance in my direction. Not when the safety of their little dove is concerned.

Because when jealousy is involved, when the attention of a High Lord is concerned, anything is possible. Males fighting over a female is plausible—a sensitive Peregryn's ego being damaged is plausible.

And perhaps, when Tamlin finds out that another male has taken his mate...

Perhaps I will not have to deal with Aidos myself after all.

> _AIDOS..._

As soon as the clock strikes nine, I'm sprinting.

Nine o'clock, or about then—that's when Auralis had said they would return. The only reason I'm not already waiting in the observation room is because I had to do _something_ with myself—had to occupy myself by doing something other than pacing before I went insane. I'd gathered as much information as I could, had taken Rowena's letters with me, had ensured that Sabah was safe in my rooms, that nobody could reach him...

Because as much as that male is an idiot, he's a helpless idiot. And I'd be lying if I didn't feel like I owe it to him to protect him.

But now—when the chime of the bell rings through the palace, when its rightful and just ruler returns, it's time to end Rowena's deceitful reign here once and for all.

It's time to make sure that Aurora is safe again—well again.

But as I race through the palace, as I run half the way and fly the other, the last thing I expect when I near-skid to a halt through one of the archways which lead to long, twisting hallways is to run into a group of fellow soldiers. Peregryn.

Peregryn guards in ivory-and-gold armour, just like me. Except unlike me, they don't seem to be in a hurry. Despite my haste, they don't move aside; despite my haste, they turn to me.

And one of them, Davos, a male I might call a friend... he pushes himself up off the archway pillar, and when his fingers ghost over his sword and his eyes settle darkly on me, I know that he's not a male I can call a friend at all.

"Let me pass," I glower at them.

My own fingers ghost over my sword, my body suddenly tense, and I glance between them; four males to one. The odds don't look good. Then again, I've faced worse—except then I'd had Apollo by my side. Now...

I'll take them on and go down fighting. If the worst happens, I'll be glad to join Apollo at the end of it.

Davos smiles. "I have orders not to do that, I'm afraid."

"Orders from who?" 

"Would you believe me if I said the Captain?"

I snarl, "No."

Davos tilts his head, that smile still lingering. "Then I won't bullshit you, Aidos."

"Move out of my way," I growl, "or I'll cut the four of you down on my way past."

Davos grins at me, and this time, there's no fingers lingering over the pommel of his sword. This time, he pulls it free.

"I'd like to see you try."

> _ROWENA ..._

As my spies work to bring Aidos down, to capture him just when he thinks he's safe, I have my eyes on the one target that can make all of this possible.

Aurora.

Perhaps I should've done it sooner—making her disappear. After all, who has spent the most time with her in the days that have passed? Me. And when Thesan comes to me for information, I shall feed him the truth I want to hear: that Aidos has been mulling over his plans for a while. That he has been trying to convince Aurora to flee with him, to run away from Tamlin with him. 

And when the two of them are missing...

What other option do they have but to believe me?

When I hold all the information, what other choice do they have but to listen to me?

When I am right, and continue to be right, what other option do they have but to trust me?

I know that although this has put a halt to my plans, it's the best thing that could happen to me. Because this way... with Aurora gone, when Thesan grieves over her loss, there is nothing in my way of getting close to him anymore.

And finally, finally, my dream is just a few steps closer.

Soon, Auralis will be gone.

Soon, Thesan will be mine.

After all... when his precious little mate comes running to save Aurora, running right into a trap, what will I be to him?

I will be the female that returned his daughter to him safely; the female who consoles him in his grief.

And then, when Thesan is too overwhelmed to do anything except mope and cry about the loss of his other half... then, it won't just be his children I will have and have control over.

No. It will be the Dawn Court I control itself.

And when I watch the Morningsworns and their cohort arrive, I know that my dream awaits just around the corner—that the only person between me and power is Aurora. A simple sleeping concoction in her sleep, a quick journey to the hideout—my plans will all be swiftly afoot. 

But when I glimpse Aurora in the dress I know very well that I did _not_ pick out for her, a dress that screams elegance, maturity... 

All sense leaves me.

I had planned to steal her away without a fight, had planned to do my bidding slyly even _despite_ my inherent annoyance where she is concerned. But now...

Now, I want to watch her writhe in pain. Now, I want to watch her scream.

It's just a dress, yes. But it had been a symbol, to me, of my power over her; a reward, if you will, for getting so far. It had been girlish, was supposed to set an impression with the Night Court, was supposed to make them think she's easily manipulated—

And she is. But she chose the wrong day to test me.

Nobody defies me and gets away with it.

> _AURORA..._

As home flickers into view, I get a feeling I haven't felt in a long time.

It's a feeling of child-like innocence, of comfort, of being held on a journey home after a long night of activity. It reminds me of days where my only worries were in fact what day it was, if I had lessons, what toys I might play with that day. And although I'm not being carried now, although it's Auralis' strong wings that brush against mine and not my father's arms wrapped around me, I am equally as tired as I might have been as a child—and apparently, to Auralis, it's evident.

"Well," Thesan breathes only once the ground below us is stable; only once the landing area around us is cupped by brown, misty mountains, "that could have been worse."

I grimace, wondering if the reason it wasn't _perfect_ was because of me. "I'm sorry, Papa—"

But Auralis cuts me off. "Why don't we talk about the meeting in the morning, hm?" He turns to look at my father with a terse smile. "I know we agreed to discuss it after, but it's nothing some sleep will disturb."

Thesan glances between us, and he gives Cora, beside me, a brief glance over too. "We have much to discuss. Especially considering that Tamlin was brought—"

"All the more reason to discuss it in the morning," Auralis says, and then he flashes me a smile—a knowing look, one I can't quite place. His arm loops into my father's own and I see my father's shoulders lose a certain amount of tension. "Come. Let's go to bed."

And in an attempt to get the image of my father and his mate in bed out of my mind, I turn to Cora with a grimace. "Walk me back to my rooms?"

She nods. "'Course."

And when my fathers bid us goodnight, when it's just myself and my best friend, I don't hesitate to loop my fingers through hers as we traverse through the halls. We make idle chatter; about the dinner just passed, about the Night Court; even about Morrigan, too. Because I _know_ something is there, and as I tease Cora relentlessly on it, I cannot stop the grin that slips onto my features as a result.

And slowly, I realise, I'm beginning to feel a little more comfortable in my skin again.

> _AIDOS …_

"Give up," Davos pants.

His fingers clutch a wound at his bicep, a wound I inflicted with my very own sword—my sword, the sword which glimmers in the moonlight, the sword that is speckled with the opposite male's blood.

"I told you," I growl at him, pacing, the two of us circling one another now. "I gave you one last chance."

The rest of my foes lie fallen—not dead but incapacitated, unconscious, for I will not _kill_ any of my Peregryn brothers no matter what they've done, largely for fear of the consequences. But Davos has always been stubborn, perhaps more than me. I know I'm not the smartest, but siding with Rowena...

That's a fool's decision.

Davos laughs. "The Priestess is paying me in far more than chances, Aidos. Always has."

"You would betray your High Lord?"

"Already have," he grins.

And then he launches himself at me.

It's a battle of swords and strength and grunts and heavy hits, but I'm stronger, older, one of the strongest in the guard. Years ago, with Apollo by my side, we'd been unstoppable. But now... now, I'll make do without my partner. Apollo had been legendary in the Dawn Palace: he'd been a warrior as well as a guard, famed and respected enough to be Auralis' second, and Apollo's legacy is truthfully why I expect the Captain keeps me around. Apollo was more level-headed than me, smarter than me, although he had the same amount of cheek. He was from a respected family. I'd been raised on the streets, forced to fight and fend for myself, and yet—

Yet none of that had helped him in the end. Not the riches, not the levelheadedness, not the respect.

Not when it came to battle.

And thinking of him now doesn't help, not when Davos slices at me and clips my wing—deep, deadly.

I grunt as I fall to my knees, temporarily overwhelmed by the shock of it, and—

Davos wastes no time in grasping at my white hair, wastes no time in pulling me forward, wastes no time in slamming his knee into my nose. Pain blooms and courses through me like a wave, and for a moment, all I can see in my eyes are stars—stars as I barely manage to hold myself up, stars as I try to stop myself from falling backwards, stars as—

As he leans down to my level and pulls me in again, preparing for another round.

If he thinks I'm going to go down without a fight, he's mistaken.

My hands reach up and grasp at his wings, just past his shoulders, and my forearms keep his own arms tight by his side in my grip. It's a pressure point Apollo always reprimanded me about forgetting. Davos' sword falls from his hand from the sheer impact of the reflex, at the pain, and the grunt that slips from his lips at the feeling is guttural and likely just as blinding as the pain that still lingers throughout my system.

I could keep pulling, tugging, dislocate his wings entirely.

But the sight of Apollo's wings crushed, at the sight of the broken bones and the blood that had marred his white feathers—

If I kept going, it's all I'd see.

Instead, I grasp at his neck and _squeeze—_ squeeze until he's clawing at me but just can't reach, squeeze until he turns red in the face, then purple, until a guttural wheezing noise slips from him as he tries _desperately_ to inhale air but can't.

And when he falls slack in my arms, when he succumbs to the blackness that awaits him, I do not waste a second before I scramble, gasping for breath, to stand. I take one glance back at the bodies I've left on the floor, some writhing, some painfully still...

And with a groan of pain, I throw myself from the archways and speed to the High Lord's quarters.

No time to think. No time to hesitate because of an injured wing, not when Rowena is desperate enough to send soldiers after me.

Not when whatever she's going to do next threatens the safety of the Dawn Court—the safety of the Captain.

The safety of _Aurora._

> _AURORA..._

It’s late enough for my eyes to be heavily-laden with sleep by the time that I finally make it back to my rooms.

My parents and I agree that we can go over the meeting in the morning, and after Cora walks me back to my rooms and I bid her goodnight, I’m barely awake enough to change into my nightgown—but I do. The chill that wafts through my room from my open balcony doors keeps me awake long enough for me to pull pins from my hair and wipe makeup from my face, and the fact that I had closed them before I left doesn't even register in my mind. Despite my gratitude for the cool air, however, I don’t hesitate to close them to shield myself from the swiftly oncoming winter’s temperatures, not when the plush covers of my bed await.

I fall asleep fast. It’s the best—and easiest—sleep I’ve fallen into in a long time. 

And so when I hear my name being called, hissed, I assume it’s a dream—but even so, my eyes close _tight_ in an attempt to stay fast and deeply asleep. 

“Aurora,” the voice hisses again, and that’s when I slowly begin to come to—when I slowly begin to remember that reality exists outside the blackness of my sleeping mind. Suddenly there are hands on me, hands that force me to wake up fast, and the blur of blue in front of me growls, “Mother’s Mercy, you little _—_ ” 

"Rowena?" I mumble, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. I move my hands to my face in an attempt to rub at my eyes, and— 

"Get up," Rowena hisses.

"Why?" I murmur, frowning.

And then she grabs me—grabs me by the hair and _lifts_ me.

I gasp, momentarily too stunned to do anything but let her grip me, even as she doesn’t let go—even as my fight or flight kicks in and I dig my fingers into her wrist without a moment’s thought. But Rowena just pulls me—pulls me off the bed until I hit the floor hard, until a sharp pain shoots up my arm, until I’m groaning with pain, until my wings start to quickly flutter with a desperate sort of panic— 

"Rowena!" I cry. My hands scramble for her own, clawing, scratching, as I let out a shuddering breath of fear. "Rowena, what are you doing—"

“Shut up, you little bitch,” she growls at me. “Your little friend Aidos thinks I can’t win? I’m proving it to him.”

I barely have time to think; all I can do is voice my confusion. “A- _Aidos_ —”

“I said shut up!” She near-screams, and I can’t help the way my body shudders in response—at the anger, at the frenzy in her tone. But that doesn't stop me from dragging me more, from dragging me half way across the room like I weight no more than a hamper of dirty laundry—

Rowena. Not Amarantha. 

Rowena.

Amarantha. Ro— 

_Amarantha._

Not Rowena, not anymore, but _her, her, her—_

I'm going to be sick. I'm going to be sick. _No no no no stop, Aurora stop, it's always worse when you’re sick, it's always worse when she realises what you’ve done—_

And as I kick and thrash and try to break free, Rowena’s grip tightens. And tightens. Her nails dig into my arm as she still holds my hair in one hand, and— 

I empty the contents of my stomach on the floor. On my dress, too. I can't help it; I can't stop it. 

Rowena screeches. "You disgusting little brat!"

My head is spinning as Rowena steps back frantically, her nose wrinkling at the acidic stench of sick as it pools on the floor and stains my nightgown. I wretch again at the smell, and before I can help it I can feel more coming up, more as I roll onto my hands and knees and shakily try to keep myself upright— 

"You got it on my shoes," she screeches. "My _silk shoes!"_

If I could move—if I could move beyond the shaking and the fear and the hyperventilating, I would winnow away or try to fight back or do something, anything, but I can't. That feeling in my chest is spreading, taking over, controlling me as if this isn't my body, as if it belongs to somebody else— 

“I was going to be nice to you,” she hisses, “but after this, you can rot in a cell.” She grabs me by the hair again and the searing pain returns, burning, and I'm convinced she might pull the golden locks from my head if she tugs any harder, if she hoists me across the room any further— "Maybe Amarantha was right, hm? You think _she's_ bad? Wait until you see _me_ —"

And all of a sudden...

I'm warm.

And it’s not from the sickness, not from the sweat, not from the terror.

It’s the kind that warms your bones; the kind of warmth that comes from inside, like a hot drink on a cool day or a bowl of soup when one is feeling under the weather. And… 

Something inside tells me to close my eyes.

So I do.

Even despite the blackness of my closed lids, I can see as the room around me gets brighter, brighter, bright as if the sun itself is rising to greet me, rising to say goodbye—or maybe this is that light I hear people talk about sometimes right before they die, that warm and welcoming light that beckons _come home come home come home—_

"What is this?" I hear Rowena near-whisper, awe and terror in that venomous voice of hers. She releases her grip just slightly; not enough, but just slightly—"Aurora, stop this—"

Brighter. Brighter now. Brighter—

“Aurora!” She screams.

I don’t open my eyes. If I do, surely it’ll be one of Amarantha’s creatures standing over me; perhaps even Rhysand, come again to tear apart my mind— 

Her screams are filled with terror now, the sort that stems from a guttural sort of fear that resonates in one’s very bones—the kind you scream before you die—

“STOP!” Rowena sobs. I hear a hard _thud_ but I still don’t open my eyes— _oh Mother oh Cauldron whatever it is whoever it is it’s coming for her too Amarantha is back to kill us all to tear us all apart—_

Rowena’s screams of terror get louder, and louder, and louder.

I open my eyes, and—

Blinding light.

Except it doesn't hurt my eyes, not when it comes from me; not when I'm the reason the room is glowing, swathed in light, illuminated in a way that barely looks real. But it's warm—excessively warm, warm like the fires of Autumn, warm enough to sear anything sensitive. My hair floats around me and I realise I'm being lifted, my wings unfolding like a shield across my back, but it's not my wings that are making me float; it’s something else, something far more powerful, something—

Something like power itself.

That’s when the power in the room becomes too much… 

And suddenly, suddenly, everything turns to chaos.

> _AIDOS..._

I burst through Thesan's doors without a care for what he or Auralis might think.

Auralis sits up instantly, thankfully clothed despite his position in bed, and Thesan sits up slower but still just as alarmed. I'm bent over, breathless as the guards outside their doors stream in behind me, and from the way Auralis glances between me and them in outrage it's likely that they're torn as to whether they should grab me and lock me up or not. But I'll take advantage of their hesitance—I'll take advantage of their uncertainty.

"Rowena," I manage to gasp. "An—attack."

Auralis' eyes widen. He throws the covers back to reveal a sandy undershirt, breeches—typical sleepwear for the oncoming winter. Thank the Cauldron. I've heard rumours about how the couple can be in the bedroom, and I don't fancy walking in on it.

"Aidos," he says darkly, "what is the meaning of this?"

"I—"

"Catch your breath," Auralis says, "and then explain."

"Rowena, she—soldiers, guards—sent them—after me," I gasp, trying desperately to straighten, trying desperately to ignore the searing pain in my wing. I only made worse by flying with it still bleeding; it's still open, still painful.

Auralis' brows furrow, and Thesan, concerned, climbs out of bed now. Auralis responds, "Why?"

"I discovered—"

_Boom._

It's an explosion that shakes the room, one that has my eyes widening, one that has Auralis grasping at the bed to remain steady. And Thesan—

Still. Deadly still, even through the explosion. Even as his face turns pale.

Auralis' eyes widen, and then he is scrambling for his sword, slung around a hook on the end of the bedpost. "Rowena."

"No," Thesan says, "it's not Rowena."

Auralis stills. Even with him stood before me, I can't tell what's going through his mind as he responds, "Thesan—"

"Can't you smell that?" Thesan hisses.

Auralis has eyes for his mate alone. "Smell what?"

"Power," he says. His gaze is glued to Auralis, his mate, his Lord— " _My_ power."

I watch as Auralis' face drains of colour, silent and still—quiet as revelation sets in. I get the sense that something is happening, something that I do not have the privilege or the information to understand.

"Aurora," Auralis chokes.

And as heat drains from my features, I realise that he's right. The explosion came from around where her room is, her chambers, the lower wing of the palace—

And when Auralis strides across to the balcony doors, throws them open and flies from them a moment after, I do not hesitate in following him.

> _AURORA..._

The windows shatter first.

Glass spirals from the panes as the sheer force of the explosion sends shards tumbling down below, a phantom wind propelling them out and _away_ from me. The curtains catch fire next. And then the bed sheets. And then the rug. It’s an explosion of red, of orange, of heat— 

An explosion of power.

And Rowena's eyes...

Festering wounds of mush. Steam rises from her face and she won't stop screaming, screeching, and the terror in her tone—

 _"AURORA!"_ She half-screams, half-sobs, and the very sound makes me choke—makes me sob, makes me whine in a release of grief and anger and upset that has been building and building and building, even before today; even before I was freed from Amarantha's clutches—

I let out a choked cry that makes the whole room shudder, and then...

And then it stops.

The fires die down until there’s nothing left, until the only sign of conflict is my steaming pile of vomit on the floor, the clumps of hair in it, the smoke spiralling in plumes from the furniture, the tapestries, the curtains— 

All of it stops—all of it except Rowena's screaming.

And as the stench of smoke burns my nose, makes me choke, I do not have time to think over what I've done or what it means or how it's possible for me to have such power. Because when the door slams open and Auralis skids to a halt with his sword drawn at his side, that’s when my power fizzles out.

That’s when that power stops lifting me; that’s when I fall to the floor in a heap.

That's when I hit my head— _hard._

Somebody is shouting—maybe Auralis, whose face is panicked as he rushes towards me; maybe the guards that stream in behind him, armed and terrified by the scene around us. And Rowena…

She’s still screaming, sobbing, when everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Thesan chapters have been leading up to this. She was born from his power—it's about time it showed itself!
> 
> Also, there's a part in the chapter where Lucien gives Aurora the cat where he smells Thesan's power in Aurora, therefore assuming she's his heir, so... if you spotted that or even remember that, you get extra brownie points! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Love you guys!


	44. Aurora

I’m not sure how long I’m asleep for.

Time doesn’t make sense in the chasm of black that takes over when one loses consciousness. The only thing that vaguely makes sense to me as I lie in a comforting cradle of nothingness is the noise that happens around me, and even then I can't focus on those noises—those conversations—for long. But when I do... 

I can hear shouting—or something like it. Raised voices. My eyes barely flutter open at the sound, barely take in the scene around me, but I’m aware enough to see that there’s nobody in the room aside from myself. I’m still in the Dawn Court, that much I’m aware of, and this is very much real. But the voices… 

Are they coming from outside? 

“You have to let me—”

“I do not have to let you do _anything,_ Tamlin. You need to—”

The door is ajar. I recognise my father’s voice; I recognise Tamlin’s. And I'd been wrong about nobody being in the room with me, because I’m vaguely aware of my father’s body jammed between the door; vaguely aware of that earthen scent that lingers outside it— 

“Let me see her,” a voice growls. Tamlin.

“I will have you forcibly _removed from this palace,_ ” Thesan snarls. I've never heard him so angry, so stressed— 

Sleep claims me before I can hear more.

It happens again, though. Sometimes, I hear snippets of conversations; other times, all that surrounds me is a timeless vacuum. And when it’s the former, I can never stay in that half-awake-half-asleep state for very long, not when sleep beckons me back home, not when it begs for me to rest.

“We should tell her, Thesan,” I hear Auralis say one day. “Maybe this is all related.”

“I know it’s related," Papa responds. "She… that was my _power,_ Auralis. She used it.”

“She needs training. Training to control it.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I'm working on it.”

And the next time—

“When will she wake?” I hear Auralis ask. His fingers caress my hair, stroking it back, and the very movement soothes me as if I'm a child again, as if I've come to them after a nightmare. "I’m worried, Thesan.” 

“A few days’ time, most likely," Thesan responds. "This happened to me when I was young. When I wore myself out too much."

"But she's been asleep for days."

"Yes. Her body needs time to recover." There's a brief pause before my father continues— "She can likely hear you, if that... helps."

Silence. And then— 

A kiss to my brow.

"I love you, sweetheart," Auralis murmurs softly against my forehead. "You're safe. I’m here. You’re safe."

But when I finally awaken, I fear only one of my fathers was right: Thesan, about when I would truly wake.

Because as I rub sleep from my eyes, as I force myself up despite the spinning of my head and the heat that lies within it, I get a good look at the room around me. It’s like most rooms in the Dawn Court: dusty rose walls, ornate pale furniture accented with bronze, plush satin bed sheets and pretty little tapestries and that pinkish haze of light that streams through the windows and illuminates the space around me.

And I do not feel safe.

The Dawn Court is the last place I will ever feel safe.

Because in this room, all I see is Rowena. 

It’s not the same room: it’s not my bedroom. And yet— 

_I can still feel her grip on me._

My head is spinning. I clutch at the covers on the bed for some sort of stability, some sort of gravity, but even the covers feel wrong—soft and light, light enough for me to have slipped from them easily when Rowena pulled at me. It's a completely different wing of the palace, and yet— 

_I can still feel the light that came from me._

Auralis sleeps peacefully on a chair not too far away, his wings curled around him like a blanket, and yet— 

_I did that to her._

It's like I'm in that room again. Rowena might as well be standing at the foot of my bed, her eyes molten, steaming—red.

Mother above, is she— 

Am I a murderer?

And as my heart races in my ears, as I struggle to breathe, as I beg for nothing more than that blackness to claim me once again, I don't stop to think about _how_ this happened; about _how_ such power came from me. As panic sets in, as terror threatens to overwhelm me, all I can think about is getting out of here. All I can think about is getting to somewhere safe.

This court was once my home. It was where I grew up, at least for a majority of my early years. It was where my grandmother read me bedtime stories—it was where I took my first steps, where I befriended Cora, where I learned to sew and dance and sing, even where I learned to ride a griffon—

But it’s not home anymore. And it will never, ever feel that way again. 

So before I know it, without a thought or another glance in Auralis’ direction, I'm winnowing away.

Home—I'm winnowing home.

Home to the Spring Court.

My stomach churns as my knees hit the damp grass below me, beads of water still fresh from the morning mist that sometimes greets one in Spring. I can hear birds chirping around me, can hear the gentle crash of the waves against the shore somewhere off in the distance, and yet even so all I can do is stare at the beads of water on the grass, at my hands and fingers laid atop the green bed below me, at...

At the hands of a murderer.

A murderer. That’s right. And if not then certainly—certainly something else, something just as bad, something— 

And as the pace of my breathing speeds up, as a sob wracks my body, as my fingers dig into the blades of grass and _pull,_ I don’t stop myself from burying my head in it, from making myself small, from hiding away from the world entirely.

I did that to a person. Blinded—

 _Blinded_ her.

Her eyes—

The very thought makes me feel sick, makes me want to vomit on the grass then and there, but part of me forces it down; forces myself to suffer through the sobs and the whimpers as they wrack my body with emotion, with pain—

"Aurora," a voice sounds ahead of me—a voice I barely hear, not with how faint I feel. "Aurora," it repeats, and then there's somebody in front of me—somebody with an earthen scent like the smell right before a storm, like daffodils in Spring— "I tried visiting you, I—I felt it through the bond—are you—"

Strong hands find my forearms even as I do nothing but kneel there and sob; even as I do nothing but force down my sickness. Slowly I am being pulled into an embrace: I am pulled into somebody's lap and their arms are around me and they are murmuring my name, the name that slowly starts to bring me back, slowly—

My fingers clutch at a doublet of silk, of finery.

"Aurora," the voice repeats—soft and deep and comforting. "You're safe. It's alright. You're safe."

Silk. Green silk. Green silk with—with gold thread, and further up there’s—golden hair—

“Tamlin?” I manage to breathlessly gasp.

He doesn’t respond. He simply holds me to him tighter and presses his lips to my head. And as I close my eyes, as I am enveloped in a warm and familiar embrace and my breathing finally begins to close, I find it’s not so difficult to fall back into that chasm of darkness at all.

***

When my eyes open again, I’m still in Tamlin’s arms.

We’re moving. We’re still outside, although I’m aware of far more now than I was before; the cool temperature, the wind that roars around us, the sea that crashes against the shore. It’s a cold day in Spring, one that sings of the changing of the seasons—although only a little and only at Tamlin's mercy, given that this is the Spring Court. But despite the wind I can still hear the crunch of grass under Tamlin’s feet, can feel his muscular body and firm against the side of my face— 

“Tam’n,” I manage to murmur, my head rolling against him to look up at him—slowly, gradually, as I try to shake my weariness. 

“I’m taking you to your rooms,” Tamlin says. He glances down at me and then averts his attention to the palace. “You can sleep there.”

I shake my head. “No. No more sleep.”

Tamlin’s tone is uncharacteristically cool as he responds, “Do what you want.” And then, as if by some way of explanation, his shoulders slump when he responds— “I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

I don’t press him on it, even as my heart thuds in my chest at his words. I don’t want to, and I don’t know how to.

My drowsiness sets in again before I even reach my bed. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to wake up just yet—perhaps I needed more sleep when I first awoke. Something I heard my father say rings through my head, something about needing rest, something about power...

And when I finally wake up again, I’ve been tucked in tight. The covers are heavy, a scratchy sort of material with a soft blanket on top that sings of coziness and a deep, heavy sleep. And the room around me… it doesn’t remind me of her, or the Dawn Court, or anything foul. It reminds me of lush meadows, of laughter, of daring touches and fleeting glances and soft kisses and— 

Tamlin.

I take a breath as I sit up. How can what happened likely a mere few hours ago seem so far away? My arrival, his appearance shortly after—his tone, his attitude, returning me to my rooms—

His tone hadn’t been the best, but he hadn’t left me outside. He’d brought me into his home, the palace he moved to in order to escape the memory of the lover who scorned him so. He cannot hate me that much, then, after how I hurt him.

Shaking my head, I make my way over to the vanity near the balcony. There’s no point worrying about how Tamlin feels about me after doing something so horrible, so foul, because perhaps I’ll deserve whatever he decides in the end. And as I sit myself down at that vanity and stare at the reflection that looks back at me, at the dark circles under my eyes and my limp hair and my pale skin, I simply cannot find it in myself to care.

I’m back in the Spring Court. That’s all that matters. And if Tamlin wants me far, far away—if he wants me and what I did to hurt him far away from him, then I’ll leave. I’ll find some place quiet and secluded with a pretty little garden, maybe one of those houses in town, or—

No.

No. Whatever lingers within me, whatever power surges around my system, whatever can do that much damage... 

Perhaps it's better that I find somewhere far, far away. Maybe it's better if I'm alone.

I don't want to know how it's possible. If there's something in me that's capable of hurting a person so badly, something that's capable of such destruction...

I don't want anything to do with it.

I don't want to _know_ anything of it. I don't want to think about my father or the Dawn Court or _anything_ that has happened to me unless it is about here and now and the Spring Court.

And as my fist wraps around the hairbrush laid out atop the pretty wooden vanity, I vow to myself that whatever happens, I will not be going back home. 

I am tired of people playing with my life as if I’m a pawn. I am tired of being told what I can and cannot do.

I am an adult. I’m not a youngling, not anymore. I don’t think I’ve been a youngling since Amarantha.

Amarantha. I’ll say her name and I’ll say it again. _Amarantha, Amarantha, Amarantha—_

I’m saying her name out loud when the door to my chambers opens.

I’m so angry that I cannot help but grasp the hairbrush in my hand like a knife as I spin to face my intruder. And despite the fact that it’s only a servant, despite the fact that she looks harmless, I do not hide the sneer on my face at her arrival. She’s plump, with brown curls and tree-bark skin, and the white apron set against her green homespun dress marks her as a member of this court. Perhaps I should be nicer—perhaps I should make an effort to be kind.

But I don’t know this person, and I am tired of giving my all to people and getting nothing in return. And if protecting myself means being a little meaner, being a little more wary, then I am willing to make that sacrifice.

The faerie’s brows rise. “Not who you were expecting?”

I bite back a rude remark. “You could say that.”

The faerie laughs, and then she shakes her head before she closes the door to my bedchamber. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. The Lord’s waiting downstairs for you.”

I frown at her, adjusting the hairbrush in my hand like I would a knife—like how Aidos taught me. “For me.”

The faerie tilts her head, and she eyes the hairbrush in my hand knowingly. “You’re not going to do much damage with that, girl.”

I heave a breath, mustering up patience. “I don’t know you.”

“Nor do I know you. But I’ve been sent to do a job, so it would be easier for us both if you were to allow me do it.”

And without another word, the faerie crosses the room to my bathroom door. I frown at the sight, following after her even as she delves into the room, even after I hear the sound of the faucet turn on. I watch her work as I linger in the doorway, as she prepares bottles, perfumes, a white robe— 

I bite at her, “I don’t even know your name.”

The faerie casts me a sideways glance. “Alis,” she responds, straightening, and she faces me as she continues, “Now, how about we get you out of that horrible nightgown, hm?”

I frown and glance down at myself, and…

Oh. She’s right about my nightgown.

The material of my dress is potted with stains of brown and green, and I _do_ look a little bit of a mess. And considering the state of my hair, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my hips have gotten smaller…

Does Tamlin even see anything in me anymore?

I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

It won't matter in the end, not if I'm to leave this place and go somewhere where nobody can find me. Maybe Rosehall; maybe Tamlin's old manor. Nobody will go there, nobody will look for me there; I can't _hurt_ anybody there.

But...

I close my eyes as my shoulders slump. “A bath, then."

A bath couldn't hurt. It might be the last one I get to have for a while.

I hear Alis sigh softly. “Come, girl," she coos, I’m not going to hurt you.”

And for better or for worse, I believe her.

I let Alis bathe me, although I keep a keen eye on her as she goes. I shoot her a warning along the lines of _don’t touch my wings_ as she works her way around the back of the tub, but that doesn’t stop her from pouring a gentle stream of warm water over them regardless, and I find that I don’t quite mind that. It’s a soothing feeling that makes me shudder, and as she shampoos my hair and talks idly to me in a soothing tone that sings of naught but reassurance and motherhood and affection, I simply allow myself to relax, to zone out, to…

To have the luxury of being able to just _forget._

I only realise that it’s time to leave the bath when Alis pulls the plug—when she gives me an almost apologetic smile. “Let’s not keep the High Lord waiting,” she says.

She's right. He deserves an explanation before I leave--an explanation about why I just _showed up_ here.

My panicked self had hardly been capable of giving him one.

Alis sets a soft, white, plush-looking dressing gown atop a marble bench, and then she leaves the room. I give my wings a gentle shudder to rid myself of water droplets before I wrap it around me, and I’m surprised to find that it even has slots for my wings at the back. I manage to get them through despite the fact that these clothes are _always_ difficult, and by the time the faerie returns, I look a little breathless indeed.

And when I emerge from the bathroom, when I spy the dress laid out at the end of my bed—the dress laid out for _me…_

I’ve seen it before, but never in its full glory. It’s one of Tamlin’s mother’s; one of the dresses in the wardrobe at the far end of the room, the dresses he had gifted me. It’s a richer green than what I’m used to, wealthier too, and yet…

It’s perfect. Perfect for how jagged I feel.

I have no right to touch something so beautiful, so special. I have no right to look pretty, to dabble with such finery, not after what I’ve done. But I have a right to be angry—I have a right to be selfish. So much has been taken from me; so much that I should be furious.

So maybe I have the right to look pretty one last time, too.

And so as I approach the end of my bed, as I run my fingers over the soft fabric of the dress, I envision this dress as everything I’ve been missing: wealth, pride, sharp edges laced with bitterness. It’s a dress a female version of Tamlin might frequent. 

But…

My shoulders slump. I probably _can’t_ wear it, not with my wings. The only reason I’d be able to wear one of his mother's dresses last time, the dress of pretty pink that I had worn when I had tea with Lucien and Tamlin in the garden, was because it had such a low back. But this one… with a fabric so luxurious, so warm, there’s no way I’m going to cut it, or damage it, or anything of the sort.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” Alis says, close behind me now. 

I shake my head. “My wings,” I say quietly, softly— “it won’t fit.”

Alis huffs. “Of course it will. The master had it altered for you.”

I look back at her in surprise. “What?”

“Look,” Alis says, and then she picks up the heavy dress and turns it around. 

And right there… wing slots lined with buttons. My breath catches in my throat. When did he do this? Before I had rejected him, or after?

“There are plenty of others to choose from if—”

“I want to wear it,” I interrupt her, a shake of my head following. I reach out to touch it again, to memorise it, to ingrain the feeling of such beauty in my memory before I inevitably flee. Such a womanly dress— “I just… I hardly feel worthy of it.”

Slowly, Alis lets the dress fall slack in her hands. “If the High Lord didn’t think you were worthy of it, then he wouldn’t have given it to you. I know my master; he doesn’t give gifts to people who don’t deserve it.”

I hesitate, my thoughts whirring in my head. She could never understand—how could she, when she hasn't done something as terrible as me? Does she even know what she stands before? How dangerous I am? I don't even know how much it will take for that power to slip from me again. How do I know I won't explode, that I won't do the same to her in the next few moments—

How do I know I won't hurt Tamlin?

I look up at her, eyes wide, and— “Does he hate me?”

_He should._

Alis raises her brows at me, and then she gives me a look of disbelief. “Child, he carried you inside and tucked you into bed.”

I press my lips together, swallowing a lump in my throat. Maybe she’s right—but maybe she’s wrong. 

I try not to think about it as Alis helps me into the dress. I want to savour the feeling of such finery, and there's no point worrying about Tamlin when all I can do is react to him in the moment. He’s unpredictable, untameable, and he’s proven that more than enough times. Because when we work my wings through the clasps at the back, when that dress is finally on my form…

It’s perfect. 

My arms are covered by long, flowing sleeves that trail down to the floor and shield me from the cold, and the only part of me on show is the deep neckline that delves into a V and reveals only the barest parts of my cleavage. The dress itself wraps around me like a warm embrace, fastened with buttons at the front and at the sleeves, and… 

The comfort I feel is almost enough to distract me from the anxiety that swells in my stomach entirely.

Almost.

And as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I think, a few weeks ago, I would have looked beautiful in this dress. But the reflection that stares back at me now... with the dark circles under my eyes, with the way the dress hangs a little too loose at the hips, the way my brown eyes seem darker, lifeless…

I look every bit what I am inside. Dead. Dark. And I think Alis notices.

“Just talk to him,” Alis encourages me, and she gives my arm a gentle squeeze—a squeeze I don’t quite mind. I take a breath. “He won’t bite.”

I manage to give her a small, knowing smile. “That’s a lie.”

Alis shrugs gently. “Well, you’re his mate. I expect you can bite, too.”

I avert my gaze, and… I realise then that she’s right.

Perhaps I'm not proud of it. Perhaps this dark part of me that feels overwhelming now is terrifying, but...

Whatever happens downstairs, whatever Tamlin says to me, it cannot be worse than what I've already gone through.

And if Tamlin pushes me away, if the wound I carved into his heart is too big for him to bare... 

Then at least I'm keeping him safe at the end of it.

Safe from _me._


	45. Tamlin and Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this hurt me. That is all.

_TAMLIN..._

Aurora Morningsworn does not look the same as when I last saw her.

At the ball, she’d been a beauty. She had glittered with gold, had glowed with light and hope and elegance, and even before that she’d glistened with an ethereal sort of beauty that had stolen my heart away completely. She had stolen my heart and crushed it all in one. But now… 

Alis picked her dress well, as much as I hate to admit it. It’s splendid enough to distract from Aurora’s face; from the dark circles around her eyes, from the loss of weight in her form and the way she stares at me, her gaze a mix of hopelessness and desperation at the same time _nothing._ And I commend Alis for that. But the sight of the female I love so much torn apart like this, so much so that it barely feels like there’s a scrap of her left… 

Whatever promise I had made to Thesan before, whatever promise I had made to my court to be better, I would risk it all for Aurora. I would risk it all to see her looking healthy again.

I remember a time in which we had stood in this living room, with its tall sea-facing window and the furniture of burgundy and deep, dark wood, and we had danced. There’d hardly been any space; not with the sofas and the bookcases and the circular table nearby. But we’d made do. Now… 

Now, I’m not sure Aurora’s fit to do any dancing at all.

_Say something—anything, Cauldron she’s here, she’s here, say something, compliment her—_

“You look nice,” I manage to say.

Aurora’s voice is quiet, emotionless, as she says, “Thank you.”

My heart clenches at the sound. It’s more like a rehearsed line than actual words of thanks, as if she’s been prepped and trained like the little lap dog I’d once thought she was—those long weeks ago when I’d judged her without knowing her. I’m not sure what terrifies me the most: the way she’s so still, so alien, so unlike my Aurora, or the loss of weight, her slack wings, those dull lips—

_Do something—what did you bring her down here for?_

To ask her why she came here, of course. But also…

Because I missed her. Because I _miss_ her. 

And so without thought, without subtlety, I blurt out, "Are you hungry?"

It’s a desperate attempt to try to help; a desperate attempt to see her _eat,_ to know that she’s at least able to still take bites, to say _something._ It’s the most I can show her; the simplest form of affection, of care, that I can manage. Twice I have opened up to a female now, and twice I have been scorned. No—Aurora might be my mate, might be destined to be mine, but that doesn’t mean that I can trust her as easily as before. Not even if my heart yearns for her like a piece of it is missing.

And as my entire body yearns for her, I realise that I won’t take no for an answer—not in regards to seeing her eat. Seeing her healthy. Before she can respond, I wave a hand to the table set up in front of the large window that overlooks the greyish hue of the sea. The table is large enough to host four people at most, or perhaps two—two and a lot of food, which is exactly what appears a moment later. Plates of meat, of berries, of fruit; jars of jams and bread spreads… 

Aurora looks at me, her eyes wide. "You didn't have to do this."

I tilt my head. “I insist.” 

She stares at me as her lips part, and I wonder if she’s about to say something, something I’m dying to hear, so I wait… but no sound comes out. And truthfully, I don’t blame her. What is there to say? Things between us are different now, a little more awkward, and… 

And when she doesn’t move, when she shows no sign of hunger, I continue, “You likely need it after this morning.”

 _Tick, tick, tick._ The only sound around us is the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a song of emptiness and sentences unsaid. She swallows; I watch her throat bob, and I watch as she likely relives the happenings of the morning in her head. I don’t want her to feel guilty because of it, not when seeing her again—despite her current state, despite how we left things—is the best thing to happen to me in weeks. Even if she seems so muted, so sad, in comparison to how she usually is. 

She looks up at me, her eyes regretful and guilt-ridden, and I shake my head. 

"Please," I nod towards the table, "sit."

She stares at me a little longer, and then—a slump of her shoulders. Aurora bows her head as she makes her way over to the table, and I follow, if only to pull her chair out for her. She gives me a weak nod in thanks as she sits down, and I try not to stare at her as I sit in the seat across from her, try not to encourage her to take as much as she wants, try not to burst with anticipation as she slowly, hesitantly assesses the food before her— 

But she takes none of it, so in an attempt to encourage her to do so, I magic some food onto my plate. Chicken, fruit, bread. It’s not like I have any intention of eating it, not when things are so tense, not when Aurora sits before me like she’s naught but skin and bone, not when…

Not when I have no idea why she’s really here. What spurned that terror I had felt down the bond. What had frightened her enough to winnow here days later.

What _happened?_

> _AURORA…_

Tamlin Oldthorne looks the same.

Tall, handsome and muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist—he’s beautiful. Long blonde hair, green eyes that glisten with the light of the sun even despite the lack of it in the room… and in that green and gold doublet, we practically match. But there is one thing that is different about him, and… 

And it’s the way he looks at me.

There’s a furrow in his brow, a solemn look in his eye, and it all makes up a look that just screams reservation. And I suppose, in the end, that I deserve such a look; that I deserve every bit of bitterness he throws at me. But that doesn’t make wanting him any easier.

"Please," he nods towards the table, "sit."

I do as he asks. His chair is already pulled out as if he’s been sitting there waiting for hours, and he wastes no time in following me as I perch in one of the wooden chairs which line the round table. I glance at the food, unsure of what to pick first—whether I _should_ pick anything first. But if Tamlin notices my hesitance, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at me. He just magics some chicken onto his plate, some berries, too, and digs in—even as I watch him. As if this is normal. As if _dining_ together is normal. 

I try to open my mouth, try to tell him _I missed you,_ but I stop myself before they can slip from my lips.

Why do the words feel so wrong?

Perhaps because I don’t believe I deserve to say them. Perhaps because I think he deserves better.

And I want him to know that I care, but something in me tells me he already knows that. No—I know Tamlin well, and there’s no pretending otherwise. I hurt him, and this is proof: he’s put up a wall as solid as the plates of food between us, and nothing I say is going to break it down. 

The male before me is scared—terrified of being hurt again, terrified of opening up again. And yet because of the bond, he can’t refuse me. He allows me to dine with him not because he wants me around, but because the bond won’t let him do anything that would have it otherwise.

I did that.

I hurt him.

Am I any better than Feyre?

_TAMLIN…_

For the longest time, all she does is stare at the food in front of her.

 _Eat,_ I want to beg her, and while my head might be lowered, my eyes are on her. _Eat—please eat._

I manage to softly ask, “Is something wrong?”

Aurora flinches.

_That’s a yes, then._

_Try something else—try harder, try more—_

“You…” I clear my throat. “I know you don’t want to, but you should eat something.”

She closes her eyes. Spreads her fingers out on the table. Touching, feeling, grounding. I know the way she tries to cope; I know the way she tries to focus on the things around her in order to stay in the moment, in order to stay in the present.

The sight only makes my heart race in my chest.

I want to reach out to her. I know that it’s what she needs, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Wrapping my arms around her, letting her in… as much as she needs me to ground her to the moment, I can’t be that person for her right now. Not when the thought of letting her in and losing her again hurts so much.

In a few moments, a few hours, she might be gone again.

I have to maintain my distance.

“What happened?” I ask her quietly.

Aurora lets out a breath and averts her gaze. “I don’t know.”

I frown at her. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean _I don’t know._ ”

Sharper now, I respond, “I would very much like to know why you winnowed to my court and panicked in my arms until you blacked out.”

She flushes—furiously, relentlessly. “If I’m that much of a burden,” she says, “then you should’ve just left me there.”

My gaze on her darkens. Even hearing her speak about herself like that—

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It might as well be.”

“Well, it’s not what I meant,” I quip back quickly, sharply. 

Suddenly, that dead, expressionless face shifts to a horrible mix of anger and sadness. Her lower lip wobbles as her fist clenches around her cutlery, and it bothers me so much that I have to look away in order to keep my cool. I don’t want to make her upset—I don’t want to argue with her. But it’s so difficult not to. Yes, part of it is my fault; yes, it’s because I’m being stubborn— 

But this is the way I stay protected.

Part of me regrets ever bringing her into my home—the ache in my chest and the sickness in my stomach is too much for me to bear, especially as my lungs begin to tighten, as anxiety sets in. I can’t lose her again. But another part of me knows that I would never, ever forgive myself if anything happened to her. 

I can’t hide the way my voice wavers as I say, “Your father will likely be wondering where you are, so perhaps it’s best that we take you home.”

One beat, two—she swallows. “You want me to leave.”

 _No. Never. Not in a thousand years. I want you close, I want to wrap my arms around you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you._ I look at her then, wondering what the right answer is; how much to show, how much to let loose— 

“No,” I respond quietly.

There are tears in her eyes. I wonder, too, if this is too much for her as well. And as I stare at her, her beautiful brown eyes wide with tears, my own piercing, the eyes of a predator, a beast… I wonder if this mating bond is more of a curse than a blessing.

“But you don’t want me here,” she says quietly.

I swallow. Avert my gaze. It’s not that I don’t want her here; it’s that her being here, given our current state, hurts me too much for my weary heart to handle. 

And so she stands.

And without a moment’s hesitation, she marches over to the living room door and does not look back. 

_AURORA..._

Coming here was a mistake.

I’ve hurt him too much. I’ve hurt him too much to be able to fix anything. How dare I come back here and expect things to be so easy to fix? Part of me knows I’m not that naive; part of me knows I’m not that selfish, that I would put years of work into trying to fix things between us and still expect nothing at the end of it. But I had come here with an ounce of hope, and having that much of it…

Foolish. Nothing other than foolish.

And the worst part is that I deserve all of it.

I cannot help the silent sob that quakes my chest as I march through the threshold of the living room and into the hallway; I do not stop even as servants stop to stare, even as I hear footsteps following me. I want to tear this dress from my body; I want to tear it off like jewellery, discard it as if it’s just as light, discard it so that I can cool down, so that my body can stop heating up and heating up and heating up and— 

“Aurora,” I hear Tamlin call out after me. I don’t stop.

“Aurora,” Tamlin says again, closer this time, and when he wraps his fingers around my wrist and turns me around I don’t have the energy to stop him in doing so. His touch on my skin still sends a feeling raging through my chest like a forest fire, still makes me yearn for his arms around me, and— 

I feel sick. Like I might vomit the empty contents of my stomach up at any moment. I want to leave, I want somewhere safe, I want— 

I want _somewhere._ Because the Spring Court isn’t mine anymore.

And when Tamlin looks down at me this time, there is naught but desperation in his features.

A crack in his facade.

His fingers don’t slip from my wrist as he stares at me, lips parted, searching for something to say, for words to verbalise. Nothing comes out. He just looks at me, confliction in his gaze as his breathing increases and the despair on his face strengthens more and more and more—

“What?” I whisper, my features matching his own. I stare up at him with blurry eyes, with parted lips, with naught but desperation in my features. “What, Tamlin?”

He takes a breath. “I—”

Nothing.

I pull away from him, and my wrist slips from his hand too easily. Far too easily.

I shake my head, stepping backwards. “I can’t.”

I can’t do this to you.

I can’t be here.

I can’t hurt you more and more and more.

And so I turn and leave; I turn around again, turn my back to him, and take those final steps to the front door and only pause when I struggle to push them open, when they’re too heavy, when I slam against them to try to break free because they’re too much, too much, too much—

Strong arms around my waist. An earthy scent. Warm breath at my neck.

It brings me both pain and comfort; a soothing, grounding kind that I somewhat hate.

I hate it because it’s what I want, and not at all what I deserve.

Lock me up lock me up lock me up— 

“I can’t hurt you,” I tell him, my words no more than a sob now, but he just buries his head in my neck; inhales the scent of me. “I can’t—”

“Stop,” he whispers, begs, his words a near moan of desperation. “Just stop.”

For a moment we just stay like that, breathing together, basking in one another’s scent, and…

Slowly, the sickening sensation begins to fade.

Slowly, it gets a little easier to be in his presence.

He is as much a grounding presence as I seem to be for him.

Why did we ever part? Why did I ever say no?

I still care for travelling—I still care for learning. But if I could have Tamlin by my side, if I could be _safe,_ if I could know that I would wake up and nothing would harm me— 

I would give all of it. Everything. 

I want a simple life. I want to sleep in when I do not have to get up early; I want to spend my days bored, lazily, leisurely. I don’t want to have lessons to attend or places to be. I want to doze in meadows, I want to spend my time curled up in libraries, I want to plant in gardens, I want to be safe and comforted and happy and—

I just want the pain to stop.

He spins me—spins me so that I’m facing him, and then his hands cup my cheeks. He averts his gaze; closes his eyes, takes a breath, and his expression becomes pained, and then— 

“Why are you here?” He whispers. 

“I—” I can’t speak.

“Why?” He whispers again.

I’m quiet, silent, and then—

“I have…” _I had nowhere else to go._ “I have nothing left.”

And when Tamlin stares at me again, I can’t tell whether the look in his eye is pity or desperation or worry or fear or both.

And none of it matters when he pulls me to him and holds me close.

_TAMLIN..._

_I have nothing left._

I have been trying to beg her to stay—to beg her not to go. Every time I stare at her, every time I can’t find the words to speak, it’s because I’m trying to force them from my lips—trying to force myself to say those three words I _know_ will be the end of me. In the living room I had wanted her to leave, had wanted the pain of her presence gone, but…

Watching her leave, watching her walk out of that door…

Seeing her go is harder than having her stay.

And why do those four words she whispers make it easier to beg her to remain?

“Please don’t go,” I manage to whisper.

She lets out a heavy, tense breath, and a choking sound follows as she says, “Tamlin—”

“Please don’t go,” I beg her, my voice a near moan as I bury my face in her neck. Her scent—sweet like vanilla and just as intoxicating. But there’s no hint of rose there, not anymore, not like there had been when she had spent time in my court— 

“I—I shouldn’t—”

“You shouldn’t go,” I interrupt, shaking my head.

“I hurt you,” she whispers.

“You will hurt me more by leaving.”

For a moment the only sound is her breathing, and then—

“I’m afraid,” she whispers.

“Afraid of what?” I manage to ask, my voice a mere murmur, barely audible.

She swallows, and then— “Of me.”

I pull back but not away; I keep my hold on her as I prompt her to turn, to look at me. She meets my gaze with such terror, such concern, and I can only stare at her, confused and quizzical and— 

“I hurt someone,” she whispers. “I hurt someone, and I don’t know it means but I am—I’m scared, Tamlin, and I—I don’t want to hurt you or anyone else, I just—I just needed to get away, and Spring was the first place I thought of and I know I deserve not to be here, I deserve to be—to be long gone but I—I—”

She is shaking, I realise, as she clutches at my wrists. As she doesn’t _dare_ lean on me for support again.

“What happened?”

And she keeps shaking, keeps looking up at me with such terror, such fear—

“What happened?” I repeat.

And finally—

“Rowena,” she explains, and it’s only when she glances about that I remember where we are: so public, so open, a place where servants can hear and see it all. And despite that, despite the fact that this whole display has been on show for all to see, I simply do not care. I am High Lord here; I am _power._ If they have a problem with it— “She—she came at me and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do anything to—to—”

She keeps going, keeps rambling sentences that barely make sense until I wrap my arms around her and hold her close to me. And even as my claws slip out and brush against the back of her head, claws of anger at the thought that anybody would hurt her, Aurora doesn’t flinch away from me.

She just holds me tighter.

”Alright,” I whisper into her hair, “alright.”

Alright because it’s fine for her to stay. Because it’s alright that she doesn’t want to go home. Because her home should be here, with me, with her mate—

And as her whimpers are the only sound that rings out around us, I know that even though things aren’t perfect between us, even though I still can’t trust her entirely…

I will murder Rowena. I will bury my claws deep in her throat until no noise slips from her except her gargle of blood as she chokes on it. 

Call it the mating bond—call it some sort of primal urge. I have had the female I love taken from me once, twice, and now my mate—my mate who has slipped from me once already, who walked away the first time.

And it enrages me. Makes my blood boil.

If anyone thinks they can get away with hurting my mate, with laying a hand on her—

They’re mistaken.

Rowena will not be an example of the opposite; she will not be an inspiration to anyone who still wishes to do my mate harm.

Rowena, if she’s not dead already, certainly will be by nightfall. 


	46. Tamlin

My face is solemn, serious, as the Dawn Court flickers into view.

I leave Aurora alone in my court—alone aside from the staff, of course, and Alis, who I have instructed to keep an eye on her. I leave her alone because I have to know the truth, have to know what truly happened, and Thesan...

Thesan holds the answers. And considering that he has extended his wards so that I must scale an entire damned mountain to get to his Dawn Palace, he likely thinks those answers are none of my business.

But they are. They're my business because Aurora is my mate; they're my business because Aurora came to me and _made_ them my business. And if Thesan thinks that having to climb a mountain will stop me from visiting, he's wrong.

Because when I shift, when my hands turn into powerful, deadly claws, when my skin turns to fur and antlers sprout from my head, when my teeth elongate into sharp, killing points...

There is nothing that can stop me in my beast form.

The winter chill no longer bites at me as I run. Both my fur and the heat of my body ensures to keep me warm as I make my way up and up and up, never stopping, never faltering. A low rumble slips from my throat, a rumble that silences any and all near wildlife for fear of their lives—a noise that leaves my surroundings still and lifeless. I only shift back into my High Fae form when I reach the circular landing area with a steep drop below—the area I _should've_ been able to winnow into had Thesan not amped up his borders to keep me out.

And yet when I am back in my High Fae form something in me feels missing, guarded, caged, even as I stand there in my finery, even as my hair is swept to one side by the wind, even as that chilly breeze I had avoided before comes and nips at my cheeks, my ears.

There are a few guards around. Not a lot, but a few, and they stand-to as they notice me; as they take in my presence. I do not care enough to mask my narrowed eyes and disgruntled lips, and if they notice how displeased I look, it doesn't make them shy away from me when they meet me half way across the walkway leading to the palace.

"Your business here, High Lord," one asks me—one of the few guards in this palace _without_ wings. High Fae.

"I have important business with Thesan," I say simply.

The guard frowns. "Our High Lord is quite engaged at the moment."

"Tell him it is about Aurora," I answer. "I have information in regards to her whereabouts."

The guard's eyes widen. "Right away. My colleague will guide you inside, if you please," he says, gesturing to the opening in the archways ahead.

I tilt my head upward in a nod. Swiftly I am guided indoors, although from my previous visits I would likely be able to reach the circular reflection room by myself had I not been escorted to the room to wait for Thesan's arrival. I watch pumpkin-and-ivory fish as they lazily swim about in the reflection room's waters, and as pink and gold water lillies bob on the surface, I wonder if Aurora, in a better mood, might appreciate something like this back at Spring. A pond—yes, a pond in the gardens, a pond with the trickling of water, a pond where life peacefully thrives without any idea of the world around it.

Yes—she might like that indeed. 

I hear footsteps and turn, but the face that greets me is not Thesan. It is Cora—Cora, who marches towards me with her gaze livid, her fists clenched.

"You," she growls at me, and I merely blink at her as she approaches, as if she's no more than Aurora's height and not far more muscular. "You—you call yourself a _mate—_ "

I tilt my head up as I regard her, my expression no more than a sneer. "I have no business with you."

"Apparently you have no business with _anyone,_ since you barely even tried to visi—"

"I came here," I interrupt, already knowing what she's about to say, "and Thesan refused to allow me to see her."

Cora seethes, her fists opening and then clenching again. "I don't care. You should've tried harder; should've done _anything_ in your power to—to—"

"Would you have me steal her?" I ask her, my tone low, threatening. My gaze on her narrows. "Take her away from her home? Start a conflict between courts?"

She hisses at me. "How you're Aurora's mate is _beyond_ me."

My brows raise as I regard her. "How she keeps you around as a friend is beyond me."

Another snarl. "You have the emotional range of a plant."

My lips quirk upwards. "You're no more than an overgrown bird."

"Beast."

"Feast."

Cora's eyes widen in outrage. For a moment all she does is flare her nostrils, a movement I'm not even sure she can control... but as much as infuriating her amuses me, as much as that burn might just be the best thing to ever slip from my lips, I do not have the patience for anything other than acquiring the answers I want and need.

"She is in my court," I tell her, and I take a breath after. "It is why I have come."

"She's _what?"_

"I expect she'll tell you the truth when you—"

She winnows away before I can finish my sentence.

I sigh, my eyes closing a moment after.

I don't have to wait long for Thesan, not where new of his daughter is concerned. He rushes into the room with his hair messily tied back behind his head—at least the parts that are long enough to reach. He hurries towards me, today dressed in a tunic and breeches rather than his usual robes, and he is the very image of a worried male; a worried father. Part of me is glad I came here to tell him in the end. Thesan is a good male, perhaps one of the few High Lords I might _almost_ trust. I had thought the same about Tarquin until recently, but considering how friendly he seems to be with Rhysand, with Feyre... 

"Tamlin," Thesan greets me hurriedly, "is it true?"

I nod. "Aurora is with me."

Thesan's hand moves to his heart. "Oh, thank goodness."

I glance over him, taking in his worry. "She winnowed to my court in a fit of panic," I explain. "I have told her that she should return, but she refuses to."

"I—" Thesan's shock is evident. "She refuses?"

"She is afraid," I explain simply. I can't say any more—I cannot elaborate on what, exactly, she is afraid of. That is exactly why I have come here, after all. For answers.

Thesan sits himself down in a nearby chair, his expression a mix of confusion and shock. I say nothing; I have nothing else to add, nothing else to contribute, and truthfully, I am too impatient for small talk. I want answers. I want them _now._

"I suppose that is understandable," he murmurs. "Regardless, I... I must apologise for her behaviour." He says the words as if he didn't expect to have to do this today; as if he didn't expect Aurora to act out in such a way.

I shake my head. "I am more concerned with why she winnowed in the first place. I would like to know, Thesan."

Thesan swallows, averts his gaze in thought, and then—

“Perhaps it’s best to show you," he responds, his voice wavering slightly.

I raise my brows slightly in pleasant surprise. I had expected to have to fight Thesan for answers, but the male before me... he looks far too tired to fight me about anything.

What has been going _on_ in the Dawn Court?

"Come," he stands, and then wastes no time in crossing the room to the doorway he had come from before.

I follow him, our footsteps silent as we make our way through pinkish halls lined with pillars; halls that would, on any warmer day, be warmed by the sun. But with the winter chill in the air it is freezing, and I'm grateful for the torches line the halls to provide some sense of warmth as we go. I'm not sure Thesan even notices the cold; if he does, he says nothing, and especially not when we come to a stop in the middle of a hallway that seems to be some sort of indoor crossroads.

"This way," Thesan murmurs, and then we are moving again.

I rumble in annoyance. "Where are you taking me?"

But Thesan doesn't answer me, not as we round a corner and come to a stop before a heavy wooden floor-to-ceiling door. Suddenly the walls here are ivory, not pink, and even the stone floor looks older, less glossy. I can't help but wonder just what is so secretive that he has to keep it in such a forgotten part of the palace. Two Peregryn guards stand ready on either side of the large door ahead of us, and I narrow my eyes at them, assessing the situation around me—at how to flee if this is some sort of trap.

"Has anyone passed here?" Thesan's gaze flickers between the guards.

"No, my Lord," one answers.

He nods. "I will be showing the High Lord of Spring. Do not let anyone in—not even the healers."

My attention snaps to Thesan, curious, wondering, and then—the guard nods.

He opens one of those heavy doors a moment later, and the hinges groan with the effort of it. Inside I spy flowing golden light filtering in through high window-frames, empty beds, shelves of ointments—

Thesan steps inside a second later. I do not hesitate to follow.

And when I do, I realise what this place is.

A hospital wing. And this part of the palace is certainly older than the rest of it, at least if the worn wooden shelves and furniture of the same kind has anything to say about it. Beds line the spaces between the windows—although the sheets have long since been removed—and the floor-to-ceiling windows are lined with black frames that speak of centuries ago, of architecture long out of fashion. It is an empty hospital wing which sings of an infirmary that has long since moved to another part of the palace, except...

Except one person lies in a bed at the far end of the room.

Rowena.

And when we approach her, I do not entirely understand why she is here—why she is not in the infirmary that is likely in a newer, dusty rose part of the palace. But as Thesan and I come to a stop at her bedside, I can see well enough what is wrong and what is right. 

The area around Rowena’s eyes is… 

Burned. Seared. A red cesspit of nothingness. A green sort of salve covers her eyes, but I can smell the extent of the damage even here.

And she is very much alive to bear the pain of it.

My intake of breath is sharp, confusion slashing a clean line through my thoughts. "Explain."

“It was self defense.”

Silence. Slowly, I put together the pieces in my brain—how terrified Aurora had been of herself; why Thesan led me here. Does he mean that Aurora did this? How? It is not possible; it is not possible for someone filled with such life to do something worse than death. Somehow she has got it wrong; _somehow_ someone has fed her lies, has convinced her that she did this when it is surely someone else, someone far more foul—

“I know,” Thesan murmurs. “It is hard to believe.”

"She could not have done this," I manage to say. My gaze on Rowena is unwavering even as anger at the sight of this female—at the sight of somebody who hurt my mate so—surges in my chest. But if she has anything to say for herself, she doesn't say it... and it is likely because of the tonic I spy by her bedside, the kind that keeps its user in a deep sleep.

I wish she were awake to tell me what happened. What did this to her. _Who_ did this to her.

It could not have been Aurora.

"Do not be so sure," Thesan argues. "Auralis—well, by his reports... Rowena sent soldiers after Aidos when he discovered the truth, then went after Aurora herself."

I glance across at him. "The truth?"

Thesan is quiet for a moment before he responds, "Rowena is the one who spread the rumours about yourself and Aurora—about my court. About the Night Court."

Silence. Deadly silence. The quiet before a storm.

Anger surges in my system—anger that forces me to snarl out the next word. "Rowena spread the rumours."

Slowly, Thesan nods.

It is too much—too much for my head to wrap around. The effort of it pains me, makes me impatient. "And how does that explain what happened to cause this?"

"It doesn't. We were going to ask her when she awoke, when she wanted to speak of it, but... whatever Rowena did," he responds, waving a hand to Rowena, "it scared Aurora enough for this to happen."

I let out a low growl of frustration as my gaze returns to the High Priestess, and... 

And slowly, everything starts to make sense. 

And as the gears turn in my head, as my _own_ experiences with my father's power in my early years come to mind, I realise what this is. What this means for Aurora. What it means for _me._

Dread finds its home in my stomach once more.

“Aurora is powerful,” I say slowly. My voice is layered with jagged meaning, with regretful intention. _Oh, these are not the answers I wanted—_

Thesan flinches. “Don’t. Do not say what you’re insinuating.”

“I’m saying it, Thesan," I say slowly, patronisingly, "because it affects the both of us.”

Thesan inhales sharply. “It’s not that.”

“How do you know?”

He is silent.

I do not have the patience for silence.

My tone is ominous as I say, "I didn't think you were the type to deny a female heir, Thesan."

Thesan's heir—not Lady of the Spring Court but _High Lady of Dawn._ I feel sick, feel like the world around me is spinning, like everything is falling apart. She'll never be my mate, never be my wife, never have my children—

She is already promised to Dawn.

Why do the females I love keep being stolen from me?

Do I not deserve love? Do I not deserve happiness?

I had wished it to Feyre. After everything, I had only wanted her to be happy. I _still_ want that for her.

Do I not deserve the same?

“She is not my heir, Tamlin," Thesan says, quieter than before.

I growl at him, ready to argue back. How can he not see it? How can he deny it? Even I had acknowledged Feyre's power; I hadn't wanted her to train but I had acknowledged it, hadn't been able to deny the signs—

Before I can respond, Thesan speaks. “What I am about to tell you is to be sworn to secrecy."

I stare at him blankly, silent in order for him to continue... and thankfully, before I have to prompt him to speak, to explain— _Cauldron please I do not have the_ _patience—_ he does.

Thesan continues, "If somebody like Beron got his hands on this; somebody who could create a herd of daughters to be used and abused and married off—"

“I swear it,” I say impatiently. "I swear it to secrecy."

It's not like promises mean very much to me—they're easy to break with very few consequences. But if this affects Aurora...

Aurora is different. I would keep all my promises to her. I would keep all her secrets.

And then he explains.

And afterwards... 

For a moment I am silent.

Still.

Void of thought, of emotion, of expression.

And then suddenly, suddenly, my mind is a whirlpool of confusion, of flashbacks, of dreaded memories.

Feyre’s sisters as they were forced into that Cauldron.

How I had desperately made a deal to get Feyre back home.

Nesta's crude gesture as she was forced into its bubbling pits—

Did they do that to Aurora?

I swallow. “She was…” Cauldron, no, not again— “She was human?”

Thesan sighs and shakes his head. “No. She has always been Fae. I raised her—myself and Auralis, since she was a baby. She has my power, Auralis’ face—“

“How?” I demand, not entirely believing him. “The Cauldron was lost until recently.”

One beat, two beats, three—as if Thesan is wondering whether to tell me, as if he is mulling over his last chance at keeping silent.

“There are some witches,” Thesan says quietly, slowly, “that can harness the power of the Cauldron themselves.”

My eyes narrow on him, and for a moment I am quiet as I try to wrap my head around the concept of such a thing. “Who knows of this?”

“Myself, Auralis, you... but certainly not Aurora." I'm not sure why those last few words spark such anger in my heart, but— "Nobody else should know.”

And slowly, the pieces start to fit together in my head.

Aurora, how she looks nothing like Thesan but rather the spitting image of Auralis if he were female; how precious she is to Auralis, just as much as she is Thesan; what she did to the Priestess before me...

If this is true; if anyone found out about Aurora’s parentage, she’d either be a pretty prize to steal away or somebody to be looked down upon. And yes, perhaps this information about the witches could end the struggle of Fae conception entirely, but…

But the risks are too high. My father, if he had the chance, would’ve done the exact thing Thesan is terrified of others doing—if he was alive and had the chance to. And considering that I have sworn to be better than him, to be better than my brothers, although most of the time I fail…

I must keep trying regardless.

And if Aurora and I ever struggle for too long—if we ever find ourselves lacking in children…

Yes. This will be our secret.

But it changes nothing, not in the long run—not when it concerns Aurora staying in the Spring Court. And that, too, is why I came here. If Aurora wishes to stay, then I will not stop her. Despite how we left things, despite the fact that it doesn't entirely feel the same as it used to, I will not see her return to a place which might mean I lose her entirely.

I shake my head. "This still leaves the fact that she does not wish to return home."

Thesan’s jaw sets hard. "You have nothing to say of this?"

It's my turn for me to clench my jaw, to _try_ to mask my anger. "It changes nothing."

Thesan lets out a breath of impatience and looks away. "Some choices we make are harder than others. She will return."

I straighten my shoulders. "Have her return here," I say darkly, "and there will be nothing left of her."

"You underestimate her strength," Thesan bites back.

"You underestimate her guilt. Her trauma."

"Then what would you have me do, Tamlin?" Thesan demands, irritation in his tone. "This is her home; you know how it will look if I allow her to leave. My courtiers will feel just as unsafe as she does."

"Then I suppose you must prioritise. What matters most to you: your daughter's wellbeing, or that of your courtiers?"

Thesan snarls at me. "You do not get to ask me that."

"Yes, I do," I hiss back at him. I take a step toward him and Thesan takes one back; I cannot help it, not when my anger has been building up and building up and building up and— "And if as her _father_ you will not protect her, then I will. As her mate."

Thesan bristles. Snarls. "Do not test me, Tamlin. I do not take threats lightly."

My tone is shamelessly patronising as I respond, "Then listen to me as I propose an arrangement."

Thesan's gaze is piercing. "If you are asking for my daughter's hand in marriage—"

I hiss in outrage. "Cauldron, Thesan. I simply mean to suggest that I will take her in as my ward."

His eyes narrow on me. "Your ward."

"Yes. Call it emissary business to improve relations if you want to; I don't care. I don't give a damn as long as she's safe and well. And if you wish for her to continue her lessons, fine. She'll have them at my court. But she should not return here—not to a place where she feels unsafe. Not where something like _this,_ " I hiss, waving a hand to Rowena, "happened.”

I moved my court because Rosehall hosted too many bad memories for me despite the good ones. I moved my court because it was tearing me apart.

I will not stand by as Aurora goes through the same as me.

Cauldron boil me, I am tired of having people taken from me. I am _tired_ of losing the ones I love—even Lucien, who is no longer my emissary but off somewhere else with _humans,_ of all people. And Aurora—I lost her only once and I am sick and tired of it already, so much so that irritation and anger and all the unpleasant things under the sun course through my veins and set my body aflame with it until it feels as though I am burning.

If I have to fight Thesan for her, if I have to start a _war_ for her, I will.

Cauldron boil me, I would fight in it. I would fight in it for her.

At least then I would be able to release some of this fucking _tension._

"She is my mate," I continue, "and yet I did not touch her—" a lie, but he doesn't need to know, "and I encouraged her to return home. But she will not. And if you think I will force her to, you are mistaken. Believe me when I say there is a part of me that wishes not to speak to you like this, not when she is your daughter," I say, my tone beginning to waver, my emotion showing, "but I am tired, Thesan, of having things like this happen. I am tired of—of having to fight. But I would do it for her just to know that she is safe and well. So please," I beg him, _beg_ him, "do what you know is best for her. Because I know you understand how it feels to see your mate hurting, and I..." I shake my head, averting my gaze to Rowena. "She deserves so much better. She deserves to be happy. And I will fight for it, Cauldron boil me, I will—"

"I will think on it," Thesan interrupts me.

I look back at him and he stares at me, his lips a thin line, and I can see a firmness in his eye that wasn't there before—a kind of regret. And I know part of him has already made up his mind then and there; I know that part of him knows what he has to do, but there is a larger part of him that does not want to let go of Aurora at all.

I hope the smaller part of him wins. 

If not...

I will pull out my armour. I will not listen to Aurora as she begs for me to unbuckle it.

And I know that it would ruin it. That it would ruin us. But part of me, that beastly side of me that begs to be unleashed...

It doesn't care.

 _I_ don't care.

I would fight and kill anything to ensure her safety. Her security.

I am tired. I am angry. And if it happened, it will happen because I am driven to it—because I have been given no other option than to fight and kill and murder.

I am so, so tired of being powerless.

I am supposed to be power itself, and yet... 

Lately, all I have been is nothingness.

And as anger flashes in my system at Thesan's response, anger that he has to think on his daughter's wellbeing as if it is _not_ an automatic answer, I have to direct that anger at something else—someone else—before it drives me insane.

Just like that power Aurora wields, just like the power that I now know is inside her, it has been building up—only mine has been building up this entire conversation rather than over decades. And yet it is just as powerful, just as deadly.

I don't know if my claws elongated earlier or just now, but I can feel them by my side. Deadly points. They sing for blood.

I can smell it from the hospital bed: the wounds still healing beneath the salve, the blood in her system, the marrow that lingers in her bones.

"Tamlin," Thesan warns. 

I cross the space that I stepped away from and move around the hospital bed.

"Tamlin," Thesan warns again, his tone urgent, demanding.

And yet even so, he doesn't move.

I run a claw across her collarbones. Brush my knuckles over her cheeks. Smooth skin, a slender neck—

"Do you think she would beg for it?" I ask him, my gaze unmoving from Rowena's sightless eyes. "Do you think she would beg for her life if she were awake to see me now?"

Thesan's intake of breath is sharp. Part of me knows this is damaging; part of me knows that all Thesan is seeing now is his daughter's mate. That, like everyone else, he is wondering how it is possible that she is my mate and that I am hers.

There is such savagery in me, such feral rage, that sometimes I wonder it too. A mate is one's equal in every way.

How is it Aurora who ended up stuck with me?

Perhaps Aurora has the same sort of rage in her too; perhaps it lingers under her skin after all those years locked up under Amarantha's control.

Whatever it is, it is encouraging as I ghost my fingers across her neck.

It would be so easy. So quick, so clean.

No—I don't want it to be clean.

My fingers ghost either side of her temples. My hand is large enough to cover her face. If I just press hard enough, if I dig my claws in hard enough—

"They will know," Thesan says to me, his voice wavering only slightly. "They will know it was you."

I press down. Squeeze. _Tighter,_ squeeze—

Rowena's breathing picks up. _Good,_ I think to myself, my lips curling up into a snarl. I watch the pain as it sets into her body. _Wake up and feel it. Wake up and stew in it._

"Tamlin," Thesan snarls. _Harder, deeper, harsher—_

"Let them," I respond.

My claws slice through Rowena's head with a jolt.

And when that satisfying _crunch_ stops her breathing entirely, when life within her ceases to exist, the tension I had felt before slips from me entirely.

It fades from me and transfers into her as my claws and my doublet is coated with blood, with matter, with pinkish stuff that reminds me of how I had cracked open the heads of Hybern's soldiers on the battlefield.

And for the longest time there is quiet.

No breathing—not from Rowena. Not even the ticking of a clock. The only sound in the room is my breathless pants and Thesan's still body in the corner of my vision.

And finally—

Thesan's voice is reprimanding as he says, "The claw marks will not be easy to hide."

I almost laugh at his tone, at his words. Those who would mistake Thesan for a male who is soft and righteous are wrong; he is merely a male of indifference, at least the majority of the time. This only proves it. He is male who loves very few apart from those closest to him, and...

And I wonder if part of him wanted to see Rowena dead as much as me.

"Send the Priestesses her body as it is," I say. I turn back to him with my gaze piercing and yet at the same time... uncaring. "Do not bother to clean it up. Let it teach them a lesson—let it be a threat."

Thesan glowers at me. "I would not recommend incurring the wrath of the High Priestesses, Tamlin."

I look back at him firmly. "I don't care. I don't _care._ I am sick and tired of external forces trying to meddle in our personal lives. Have we not been through enough? We are High Lords—we are _power._ Lately we have been treated otherwise. I say enough is enough. I say I want the respect I _deserve,_ " I snarl, stepping away from Rowena's body. I am only vaguely aware of the _drip, drip, drip_ of blood from my claws as I continue, "I would like to see them argue with me when it was _their_ Priestess that attempted to squander our names."

One, two, three—

"They will likely take this as an insult," Thesan warns. "They will likely refuse to send a Priestess to serve in your court."

"Good," I bite back. Although damaging, it is not the worst thing to happen to my court—not after Feyre, after Hybern. "I am glad of it." 

Thesan tilts his head. "You truly do not care?"

"Would you prefer that Aurora take the blame for her death—for her injuries?"

"I..." Thesan blinks at me; blinks as if he hadn't considered the concept. "No."

I look back at Rowena. Blood pools from the holes in her head; it spills and stains the bed sheets, the mattress. I can hear the trickle of it as it pours onto the floor, can see the blue of her dress stain a deep, jarring hue—

"Sorry for the mess," I lie.

And when I winnow back into Spring, I do not head for the palace first.

Despite the rain that thunders to the ground, I head for the woods—the woods so that I can get rid of this anger, this frustration, before I return to my love. And as those claws elongate into paws, as my muscular form takes on that of a predator, I find that I care more for the lives of the deer that I sink my teeth into the throat of than I ever cared for Rowena's own.

The deer are innocent, after all.

And as the doe takes her final breaths, as she kicks and thrashes for life, my only regret is that I hadn't seen Rowena do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took a turn. Be careful what you wish for, I guess?
> 
> Did you expect Tamlin to go that hard? Let me know!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! <3


	47. Tamlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to thunder and rain sounds for this chapter. I like this one here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPZkdNFkNps
> 
> Enjoy!

When I return to the palace, I find Aurora curled up on the balcony.

She's seated on a chair which overlooks the sea even as the wind laps at her natural golden blonde curls, even as the rain pours and pours and makes her hair look damp and unruly. She has changed out of the elegant dress she wore earlier in favour of a simple white underdress, and the dampness of it leaves it somewhat see-through. But despite the sheerness, despite how exposed she is, I cannot bring myself to appreciate the sight... because with her knees pulled up to her chest and her wings resting against the back of the garden chair—a chair certainly not made for those with wings—she looks so hopeless, so innocent, so...

So like her old self. And yet, at the same time, different.

I still cannot entirely believe that it is possible for her to do something so dark; I still cannot believe that such deadly power lingers within her, nor can I believe the way she was created. But what reason does Thesan have to lie? The very thought of today's revelations make me feel restless, causes a relentless feeling as irritating as itchiness to surge under my skin, and part of that feeling still lingers from what I did to Rowena. But Aurora has no clue of it; she has no idea what I did. Or just who she is. Just what she is. Just how _powerful_ she is.

And at the moment, I like it—her—like that. 

Truthfully, I'm not sure how Aurora will react to the news of Rowena's death. And her power... 

When Feyre's powers had been involved, everything had become difficult. Nothing was simple, not when she wanted to learn how to harness them. And unlike everything else, unlike all the things I had reasons for, that desire to see her remain placid, to remain quiet, had been purely selfish. I was far too tired—too tired to deal with the consequences of training her, too tired to deal with the worry that I would feel when her powers became too much, too tired of everything being so _complicated._ Her deal with Rhysand had been enough to worry about; playing with raw power, on top of that, was too much.

And Aurora...

Aurora deserves simple; I deserve to have her near.

I think.

And so as the sound of falling Spring rain roars around us, as thunder rumbles in the distance, I do not hesitate to grab the white robe at the end of her bed and cross the room with silent steps to reach her. She's soaking wet and the rain keeps pouring as I hurriedly wrap the fabric around her, but she doesn't move—just keeps staring out at that grey sea. Void. Emotionless.

"Aurora," I say behind her, my voice slightly raised against the noise, "Aurora, please come inside."

"Mm," she murmurs. If she notices my presence, if she acknowledges that this is real, she says nothing—just keeps looking out to sea. 

"Aurora," I repeat. I waste no time in moving around her, lowering now—lowering to her eye level. I bend my knees to reach her gaze and, thankfully, her brown orbs snap to my own green ones as she stares back at me. In this moment I do not care about keeping myself from her; I do not care about keeping my heart safe. Something screams at me to care for her, to protect her, and so I will. "Aurora, sweetheart, come inside."

The rain lashes down on us and yet there is only silence between us as thunder threatens, as lightning looms—

"Inside," she says quietly.

I almost reach out my hand to her. Almost. But I don't. I don't have the patience, don't have the time—

Instead, I reach under her. I reach until I am lifting her, until I am pulling her into my arms, and she does not fight against it. My arms are wrapped around her as I carry her inside, as I kick the doors of the balcony shut, as I hold her close to me as I cross the room and lower her slowly and gently to the bed—

And when the noise from outside is muffled, muted, the silence that roars in the room is deafening.

"What were you doing out there?" I breathe, standing over her now. The fire—I should put a log on the fire, should get her warmed up, but instead I try not to shake as I perch on the side of her bed. "What were you—are you alright?"

Slowly, Aurora pushes herself up—up to lean against the headboard of her bed, to smush the covers behind her back.

"I haven't seen rain that hard since before Under the Mountain," she says quietly. 

Silence. I stare at her, wanting, waiting for an elaboration—

"I wanted to feel it," she continues softly.

I swallow as I look over her. I don't know what to do—don't know what to say, what to do to help, how to make it better.

And so I do what I learned from my father; I do what he did when he knew of nothing else.

I do _something._

When my father hadn't known what to say or how to help, he had just _done_ something. Something physical. At least in the times with my mother where they weren't arguing, where he _wasn't_ running off with other females, he had gotten her tea or showered her with presents or had sent me or one of my brothers to check on her. Typically, it would be me.

I cross the room to the fireplace near the sofas and reach for the basket of wood beside it, the matches within it. Strike one, toss it in. I watch as the fire roars, suck in a breath at the sight, and for a moment I just stare at it, watching as the flames dance and swish and sing. Part of me wishes as I watch that things could feel so free with Aurora again, that we could go back to a few weeks ago when our only worry had been whether Thesan would let us see one another or not, but now... 

I'm only just aware of footsteps from the other end of the room; bare feet on the stone floor, barely audible over the rain that hammers against the windows, against the balcony doors.

Aurora wraps her arms around me, slinks them around my waist from behind, and I find I do not mind it one bit—not even as my head screams at me to stop it, not even as my heart warns me against her touch. 

Aurora is cold and wet and dripping from the rain, and yet she is the warmest thing I have felt in weeks. 

"It's alright," she says softly to me, as if _I'm_ the one that needs comforting, as if _I'm_ the one that's been standing out in the rain. 

"Is it?" I whisper regardless. I don't know what we're talking about, but I know it matters.

She leans her head against my back, quiet for a while, and then— "I don't know."

I close my eyes. The crackling of the fire is a comforting sound, and with the rain around us, it's almost cosy. I am only just aware of Aurora's footsteps as she moves; the sound makes me open my eyes, makes me want to beg for her to stay.

When I open them again, she stands in front of me.

She looks up at me with soft eyes, the firelight flickering in her beautiful soil-rich hues, and I think I have never seen anything as beautiful as she as she stares up at me and _sees_ me. This is what I have been missing, I realise, even as a voice in my head sobs at me not to let her in, even as something in me _demands_ that I fall to my knees and hide myself away and succumb to nothingness so that I might not get hurt again.

"It's alright," she repeats quietly. Her cool fingers find my cheek, cupping, caressing, soothing—

"Aurora," I whisper, her name a breath of relief from my lungs—a breath of content, a name that prompts me to close my eyes, to bask in her touch.

Oh, my heart yearns for her. 

"Mm," she murmurs, and she leans her head on my chest a moment after.

For a moment it is silent between us. It is quiet as my fingers find her hair; quiet as I run them through it and try to loosen the knots from the rain, as she looks up at me with wide eyes and soft features and a terrified sort of love in her eyes—

"Tamlin," she whispers, her eyes closing. She whispers my name in the same way that I whispered hers, only my name from her lips sings of longing, of something vulnerable, of something weeping for comfort.

My fingers find her jaw. Soothing, caressing. _Mine—she is mine, she has to be, she will be._ She is a forbidden sort of love that I have placed here. The wall between us is of my doing and yet I am walking clean through it; I am walking through the wall that I have put up for my protection willingly, without thought, without hesitance—

She relaxes against me; sends her fingers exploring my neck.

And when I lower my gaze to her lips, when the sight of them takes my breath away, she stands on her tiptoes and leans up to kiss me.

Her lips are just as soft and warm as I remember—just enticingly sweet, just as enchantingly delightful. And her tongue—the way she tentatively swipes out against me, the way my heart clenches at the taste, the way my body yearns for more, more, more—

I bend to lift her so that her legs wrap around my waist, so that we're at the same height, so that she doesn't have to strain to reach me. There is nothing suggestive about it; it is a desire to be closer, a call for comfort, a call to be together. Her fingers find my jaw as she kisses me and I do not hesitate to walk blindly over to the sofa, relying on faith alone that I will not trip, will not stumble—

"Tamlin," she gasps against my lips.

The sound of my name is almost enough to have me stumbling. Almost.

But the sofa is my saviour, and as I sit and pull her down with me, it changes nothing. Not as my tongue swipes out against hers, not as my fingers grasp at her damp hair and take a fistful of it, not as her thumb swipes out against my cheek to caress the skin there. Her tongue works against mine and sends heat coursing through my veins, a heat that feels far too intimate for such a moment of longing and comfort, yet it is a heat that comes in full demanding force. She fumbles at the buttons on my doublet and something in me jumps at that, something like excitement, something that has me pushing down the sleeves of her dress—

Something which startles her. Something which forces her to pull back, to look at me with heat coating her cheeks, to tense up in my hold.

"Sorry," she whispers. I can feel the nerves wafting from her in waves, can feel the embarrassment that forces her to lower her gaze to her hands, now flat against my chest.

I shake my head, somewhat breathless as I rub at her arms. She's still so cold. "Are you—"

She nods, even if I don't get to finish my sentence. Aurora leans forward and dips down so that she can hide her head in my chest, and I do not stop her. I rub her lower back in small circles and she seems to like that, if the small noise of content from her lips is any indication. 

"Please don't do that again," I whisper to her. I realise then that she might think I mean _stopping,_ so I continue. "The—the rain. I... please don't." _Please don't because if you caught a cold, if you got ill, if anything happened to you, I—_

I wouldn't know what to do.

It's silly to ask the daughter of healing not to go out in the rain, and yet I am doing it anyway.

Softly, she nods. "Alright."

I keep rubbing at her back even as silence lingers between us. It still feels soft here, still feels gentle, and yet—there is that deafening silence that sings of discomfort, the sort that lingers, threatening, at the edges of our conversation. I do not want it to return; I don't want my senses to return to me.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to town with me," I say quietly, desperately, anything to stop that tension from returning, "but I don't think now is the best time."

She shifts only slightly; leans her head against my shoulder. "The rain?"

I nod. For a moment she is quiet, and then—

"I don't know if it is safe," she whispers.

I frown, confused, as I lean back to look at her. "Why would town not be safe? You have been there before." 

Aurora shakes her head, and then quietly— "No. Is it... safe for me to come?"

I frown. "You will be with me. Of course it's safe."

One beat, two—her eyes are filled with regret as she stares into my own and says softly, "But I could still hurt you."

Oh. _Oh._

Is it safe for _her_ to come—for _her_ to be around the people that have made my town the bustling place that it now is.

 _Yes. Yes, it is, of course it is,_ I think— _anything for you._ Truthfully, it is unlikely that she will have another outburst so soon after using up her powers; I know because I wore myself out plenty in my early years. But how do I tell her that without giving too much away—without letting her know just how much I understand about the new power that shows within her?

"In my experience," I start slowly, softly, as I stroke her hair back, "using up too much power, regardless of its source, means that it will be a while before it builds enough to be powerful again. Perhaps years. It was the first time it happened to you—it might take that long again."

Her brows rise a little, and then... slowly, her shoulders relax.

"You mean that?" She murmurs, hope tinging the very end of her sentence. Her fingers move to my cheek, exploring, feeling, as if it's something she's never felt before—as if the skin of a male is something she's never seen before. Such wonderment in her eyes, such love... 

I bow my head, and my voice is a mere whisper as I respond, "I do."

I hope to say those words at the altar some day.

She looks away, returns her gaze to the balcony windows and the sea that rages beyond, and then...

The long, slow breath she lets out is one of relief. Relief and nothing else.

"Let's go, then," she says quietly, her gaze returning to me.

"What?" I huff, my breath a mix between laughter and surprise. "Rora, it is pouring."

She looks back at me then; blinks in surprise. A small smile ghosts at the edges of her lips. "You called me Rora."

I raise a brow. "Yes?"

For a moment she is quiet as that smile plays at the edges of her lips. "I like that," she finally whispers.

And in that moment, I cannot help but kiss her. 

She kisses me back; wraps her fingers softly around my neck. This kiss is different now; nothing desperate, nothing demanding. It is slow—slow as if we have all the time in the world, slow as if nothing and nobody else outside those doors matters. Slow as if we two are the only ones left in the world.

My heart be damned. My heart be _damned._ I love her, I love her, I love her—

I'll regret this in the morning. I'll regret this in the morning when Thesan says she has to return home, when Auralis says she must go—

And I still have to tell her about that. About what Thesan had said, about what he is considering... but not now. Not when everything is so perfect. Not when she is here with me and she is all that matters.

"I want to go," she whispers against my lips. "I want to see."

"It's cold," I murmur. "You'll catch a chill."

Her smile against my lips is soft, small. "If we get sick, we will feed one another soup."

I smile. "Will you make it for me yourself?"

She is quiet for a moment, and then she taps my nose. "Don't think I don't know what you're insinuating."

My smile widens a touch despite the insinuation, even despite the fact it's another reminder that for now, she refuses to accept the bond. But instead of sitting there any longer I wrap my arms around her firmly, rising in the next instance, and she lets out a quiet squeak as she has no option but to come with me.

"What are you doing?" She asks. Her fingers brush against my cheek again.

"Getting you dry," I respond.

She is set down on the ground in the next instance. I part from her as I delve into the bathroom and retrieve a towel, and she lets out a small laugh as I work to get her dry, smothering her with the fluffy green material. Only when she is not nearly as damp as before do I help her into that green dress from earlier, clasping the buttons at the back shut, and she gives a little shake of her wings in order to rid herself of the water droplets that cling to them.

And looking at her now, despite the dampness of her hair— _you can't brush out hair this curly, Tamlin,_ she had reprimanded me as I gently ran the towel through it—I can think of the compliment I had wanted to give her earlier, the compliment that had been at the back of my mind that just would _not_ come forward.

"You should wear green more often," I tell her.

The small smile she gives me in response makes it worth the wait.

***

“Has much changed since I last visited?” Aurora asks as the town slowly fades into view.

Rain hammers against the carriage, and there is a slight chill even inside it as the horses trot along. We had narrowly avoided getting stuck in the mud earlier, and perhaps venturing into town in such dreadful weather is a death wish, but... neither of us had cared. Both of us knew the risks of getting stuck in the storm, although once Aurora was dry and dressed, we _had_ dashed into that carriage for fear of getting soaked once more. And true, there is not much I can show her of town in weather like this, not when shops will likely be empty and the market will be closed, but...

But there is one place in particular I want her to see.

One place in particular that is _ours—_ or, at least, should be.

I shrug softly. “Somewhat. The houses are fully built now," I say as I look out of the carriage window—the windows that Aurora asked to keep open, revealing shops and houses made up of tiled roofs, pale stone and wooden accents. "There's a marketplace, a few shops—though not all are open. Some still await business."

Softly, Aurora smiles. “It sounds lovely." ~~~~

And when the carriage pulls to a stop outside one house in particular, I grin at her. "You will see it soon enough."

I lean forward and push open the door even before the chauffeur is able, impatient to get inside. We step from the carriage into the pouring rain and it hammers down on us, soaks our clothes, dampens our hair once again, and yet neither of us care; neither of us bother to get out of it even though the door to the townhouse is right there, even though warmth is right there—

Because we're together again. Finally.

And nothing else matters. Not that things between us aren't quite the same, not that we're both just as damaged as the other, not that things might not stay like this forever. Not that things might return to being just as awkward, just as difficult as hours earlier.

Thunder rolls in the distance and the streets are near deserted, but for me, it is the brightest day in a week full of cloudy skies.

"Welcome to Sperover, Aurora," I smile at her.

Sperover—hope for Spring.

And when she smiles back at me, I know that I'd be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of her when naming it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things between them are certainly not fixed; Tamlin still can't give himself to her entirely after being hurt again, but... they needed a moment of softness. And honestly, I didn't even plan this. It just happened when I was writing. They were telling me this is what they needed, this is what they'd do, so... I delivered.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!


	48. Aurora

I am too distracted by the rain, by the storm, by _him,_ to take in the building before us.

I shiver as I nod in thanks to the chauffer—who looks quite disgruntled at having to make such a journey in the rain, but at least in the forest we were covered by the trees—and, although disgruntled, he nods back, perhaps simply due to formality, to expectations, something like it. Tamlin works meanwhile to unlock the door to what looks like some sort of grandiose residence, and in the pouring rain, I follow him without question. He closes the door behind us, and yet even so it is only when I hear him exhale a breath of relief that I let myself step forward, that I let myself take in my surroundings.

"What is this place?" I ask him, not looking back at him.

"Home," Tamlin answers, and then he comes to as top beside me, "if you would have it."

 _Home._ I look away from him and back at the living room, and indeed, this could make a cosy home indeed. It's not as large as the palace but it's not small either; there are stairs lining the wall to my right, and to my left there is a fireplace, a simplistic yet elegant sofa, and further through to the back is a small kitchen which overlooks a considerable fenced off garden at the back. The floors are made of the same dark wood that lines the exterior's walls, and while the interior here seems to be made up of wood that gives off a warm feel, there are marble accents all around—sections of the wall that are stone itself, beautiful gold and green accents within it, and pillars which section it off from the rest of the wall.

This place isn't a lot in comparison to the palace, but...

It's beautiful. Not too sizeable and not too small. I can see how it could be a home.

I turn back to him as I take a breath. "Home?"

Tamlin's fingers find my shoulders, and gently, he makes to pull my damp cloak from my form. I let him.

"I wanted a place in town for when I would like a break from the palace," he explains, "or if I had work in town and I wished to remain for it. And... I'll admit I originally had this place built with us in mind, but that doesn't matter now. It... I thought it might be good for you to have your own space."

I stare at him, quiet, silent as I try to swallow down the emotion such a gift musters up in my throat, and that must unsettle him because he continues talking, rambling—

"I remember how you wanted a house in town when you visited," he continues, "and I know you are unsettled by being around people now."

"Thank you," I manage to whisper, turning back to the living room. Such kindness; such... generosity. It's bare, but if I had furniture commissioned, if I put plants and candles within it...

"Do what you want with the place," Tamlin says to me.

I look back at him and blink, surprise coating my expression. "Really?"

Tamlin nods. "I only ask that it remains..." he fumbles for the words, "private."

I'm quiet for a moment as I look around the place again, and then I turn to him—turn my whole body to face him, rather than just looking his way. "But what about you?"

"Me?"

I tilt my head. "Don't you have duties back at the palace?"

Tamlin tilts his head, too. "Yes?"

I stare at him, and then bashfully, I avert my gaze. "I don't want to be here alone."

One beat, two—

Tamlin asks, "You want me to stay?"

I nod, still not looking at him.

For the longest time he is quiet, the only sound between us the rain as it patters on the roof high above, and then—

"It is quite intimate here," Tamlin warns me quietly.

I nod. "I know."

More silence. More quiet. _Taptaptaptaptap—_

"If... if that is something that you would like," Tamlin says quietly, "then I will see what I can do."

I try to suppress my smile as I regard him. _Alright,_ I want to say. But the words do not come out.

Mother above, I love the male before me. And a gift such as this means so much—a place where I can be comfortable and not have to worry about anybody else, about formality, about duties. I could waste away inside this home and I think, for a long time, I would be perfectly happy to do so.

And with all this talk of homes and living spaces and his _court_ in general, I remember a conversation I had earlier. Cora had visited—she had visited and said that Tamlin told her I was in the Spring Court, but I hadn't wanted to talk to her for longer than a few minutes. I had wanted to return to my rooms, had refused to tell her what happened with Rowena, and the last thing she had said to me... 

"Cora visited," I say, somewhat out of the blue.

Tamlin's head tilts upwards. "She did." It is a question, but it sounds more like a displeased statement.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Don't pretend like you don't know. She told me that you told her I'm here. But I didn't... I didn't really want to see her. And she said if I'm staying here, then she will be too."

Tamlin averts his gaze to the living room. "If you do not wish for her to join you, I can send her away."

"No," I answer almost automatically—automatically, without really knowing what else to say. "I..."

Tamlin stares at me for a moment. "You wish for her to join you."

"I..." _Yes._ Yes, because who am I without Cora by my side? "Yes, if possible."

Because despite everything, despite the fact that I'm a little afraid to be around anyone right now...

Cora should be near me.

I've known her since I was a child, and she means just as much to me as Tamlin does. I was separated from her long enough Under the Mountain; despite how difficult things might be right now, despite my guilt, she is the one person I need to have near.

Perhaps it's selfish. But it'll be Cora's choice.

Tamlin lets out a low hum and averts his gaze, and then he begins to unbutton his doublet. I blink at the movement momentarily, stunned, but he doesn't notice—and I'm thankful for it. If he teases me for watching the movements, I'm not sure I'll be able to handle the flush on my features.

When did it suddenly get like this?

Stop it. _Stop._ He's just trying to get warm.

Tamlin only speaks when he has hung his doublet on the post by the door, leaving him only in his thin white undershirt, breeches, and boots. His long blonde hair is damp at his sides as he says, "We will see what your father decides."

I blink and clear my throat, trying my best to act normal. "What did he say?"

Tamlin glances over me, hesitating, and then— "He will consider letting you remain."

My eyes widen, and it isn't long until my lips part. "Tamlin, that's—that's—"

Tamlin shakes his head. "Don't get too excited. He hasn't said yes yet."

I'm near bouncing on my feet when I ask, "But how? What did you say to him? It _can't_ be that easy—"

Tamlin frowns. "Aurora."

I give him a half-roll of my eyes, my hands rising a little in exasperation. "The fact that he did not say no means that he will likely say yes."

Quiet. Tamlin's eyes narrow on me. "You're sure of that?"

I press my lips together in thought, and then... I sigh. "Perhaps not entirely."

He rolls his eyes, extending a hand to me a moment later. "Come. I should show you the upstairs level."

With another sigh, I take his hand. He flashes me a smile as he leads me up the stairs, wide enough for two, revealing a relatively spacious landing. The door to the right of the stairs leads to a study; the doors to the left of the stairs lead to two bedrooms, or what will be; and the floor which wraps around the back of the staircase leads to the bathroom. There are little alcoves, too, which could be perfect for little seating areas or perhaps something like a miniature study area.

Only once we're done do we simply watch from the upstairs window; watch the rain, watch as some of Sperover's people run to shelter under doorsteps and archways. The town is alive and well, its people a diverse mix of faeries and High Fae, and it is everything Tamlin's court deserves. The fact that it was built so quickly and so smoothly simply tells of Dawn and Day's building skills.

"We have needed rain for a while," Tamlin muses after a while; after a few moments of comfortable quiet. "It has been... well. The lack of it is partly my fault."

I look at him. "You can control it?"

"Mm... yes. But I tend not to stop what comes naturally."

I tilt my head, curious. "Why?"

Gently, Tamlin shrugs. "I prefer not to dabble with what is already set up."

I look back outside. "I suppose that makes sense."

It is quiet for a while, and then Tamlin sighs. "But right now, I am impatient."

And then—

The rain comes to a sudden stop.

I gape at him. I have never seen power like it; my father does not have control over the dawn, not when the sun is the true power behind it. Certainly, he can control how pretty it is, whether it's cloudy or not in his territory, but... this is impressive. Even the thunder in the distance quietens, and I wonder if Tamlin has control over that, too.

"Come," he says to me, offering me his hand, "I have a town to show you—a town that exists largely due to you."

I blink at him, but I do not hesitate in slipping my slender fingers into his own large hand. "Me?"

Slowly, solemnly, he nods. He pulls me to him gently. "A lot of Spring owes its life to you."

I do not question it. I don't want to think on it; I don't want to think on the male he was before, and truthfully, I do not want to dwell on something so flattering, something so large. And so with the rain finally halted, with the clouds beginning to part, we leave.

I clutch my cloak closer to me as we make our way through the streets. We pass clothes shops, cafes and restaurants, and even a small town square with a beautiful fountain in the middle. Tamlin tells me tidbits of information as we go; complications with building, what the people who own particular shops are like, places I might like to visit. In half an hour we explore only a quarter of the town, something which truly tells of how sprawling this place is. It is all a welcome distraction from the storm of thoughts that was brewing in my head earlier in the day.

"Lord," the people murmur as we pass. Tamlin nods to them.

"Lady," they murmur, and my breath catches in my throat.

Tamlin says nothing—just keeps walking. And truthfully, I am glad of it. It would add more complication than we need right now.

Things between us are not the same. They are confusing and complicated, and they might be like that for a while.

But for now...

For now, I am in Spring. For now, I am with Tamlin.

For now, I will bask in it. 


	49. Tamlin

Thesan arrives the next day—early as the dawn.

The sun is still rising when one of the faerie servants announces his presence, and as I stretch and roll out of bed, I hope dearly that this won’t be a regular occurrence. I typically wake early, but this...

This borders on insulting. It's daring, certainly. And I bet Thesan knows it.

I grumble as I bathe and dress, and out of spite, I take my time. I have the servants draw me a bath, and for a while I stew in it before I pick a doublet—dusty rose today, in the hope that Aurora might match—and the rest of my clothing. It is only once I am dressed that the servants rap a gentle knock on the door, and they do not hesitate to let themselves in once I call for them to do so.

“Should I wake the Lady up, Lord?” A male faerie, his hair a mousy spring brown, asks me. He wears the green-and-brown uniform of my court.

“She’s not Lady,” I reply, glancing at him from where I assess my appearance in the mirror. “And no. I’ll wake her myself. Just make sure breakfast is ready downstairs and guide Thesan and any company he has to the living room.”

The faerie nods. “Apologies, Lord. Yes, Lord.”

He leaves soon after, and only when I am done with my hair do I leave my rooms. Aurora is the person I make my way to first; not Thesan but his daughter, my mate, and the bedchamber assigned to her. It's still early, so I have no doubt that she'll be asleep—at least I hope. Something in me tells me that if she were not, it would tell of a long and sleepless night, and...

And she does not need that. Not if, in the end, the outcome of this meeting is not exactly ideal for either of us.

Softly, when I stand in the hallway which leads to her bedchamber, I knock on her door and push it open. “Aurora?”

I peek inside, and—

And she's fast asleep in bed, curled up in a tangle of sheets and thick comforters. One leg juts out of the covers and leaves her skin bare, and I swallow down the sight of it in favour of the way she wraps her arms around the covers, as if she's hugging some sort of invisible body. She looks peacefully asleep, as if nothing in the world might bother her. I hate to wake her, but...

I step into the room and close the door softly behind me, for there is no need to wake her so suddenly. I try to avoid taking in that bare length of skin where her nightgown is pushed up, crumpled about at her thighs, and yet as much as I try to push the former image from my mind in exchange for the one of innocence...

I know that the sight of her in her nightgown will not be leaving my mind any time soon.

I perch at the edge of her bed. “Aurora.”

“Mm,” she mumbles, rolling over, and I think the way the curls of her hair are messy is rather endearing; adorable, even, as she sniffles and pulls the covers over her body, an attempt to hide from the morning’s dawn— 

“You know,” I murmur, amused, “for the daughter of the High Lord of Dawn, you certainly don’t like waking up during it.”

Her eyes open suddenly, and she jumps at the sight of me. “Tamlin?”

I raise my hands in quick surrender, leaning back somewhat as if to emphasise no ill intent. “Your father is here. I… wanted to tell you myself.”

She blinks and rubs her eyes before she sits herself up against the headboard. “Papa is here?”

I nod. “He’s here to discuss the conditions of your stay, no doubt.”

Slowly, Aurora’s hands drop from her face. “I get to stay?”

"I requested that you stay as my ward," I tell her, "so perhaps. You said yourself it is likely. We will find out his response soon enough, I suppose."

Aurora sucks in a breath, and then she nods. “Alright.”

I stand from the edge of her bed. “Would you like me to wait for you to dress, or... meet you downstairs?"

Aurora presses her lips together in thought, averting her gaze, and then— "I would like for us to go down together, if that's alright."

I let out a breath. Of course. Of _course_ that's alright. I nod, glancing over to the dresser which hosts her clothes—clothes which are a majority ones that my mother once wore. Aurora deserves them. Who else should have them if not her?

"What shall be the colour for today?" I smile at her.

She smiles back. "I'm feeling Spring Court green."

In the end, once she is bathed and dressed, she chooses a pretty rose coloured dress _accented_ with green. It matches the pink of my doublet well enough, and when it is time to leave, I offer her my arm. But when she reaches for my hand instead, I do not pull away—not when our fingers intertwine without a word, not when all I can do as my green hues find her own brown ones is stare; stare at her with my gaze full of love and a wordless promise to protect. And with the worry in Aurora's gaze, I think she appreciates it. 

We walk hand in hand, mate and mate, until the hallway widens out as we reach the top of the stairs. And then she pulls me close—tugs me closer to her. For a moment she says nothing, only looks up at me and takes a breath, and then—

She leans up to kiss my cheek.

And buries her head in my neck a moment later.

Wordlessly, my arms wrap around her, and I bury myself in her scent, too.

"It's alright," I murmur to her, pressing a kiss to her head. My fingers run soothing motions through her hair, past the pearls clips that tie it back. I murmur softly, "It'll be alright."

She forces a deep breath. "I hope so," she says quietly.

It's only once I hear Thesan's voice from the living room, muffled and wise, that I avert my gaze. Hesitating won't make it any easier; waiting at the top of these stairs won't change Thesan's decision.

"Come," I murmur softly, pulling away from her gently, and my fingers find hers again. "It's time."

She looks up at me, swallows thickly, and...

Hand in hand, we make our way down those stairs.

Thesan holds both our fates in his hand. And perhaps I don't entirely deserve happiness; part of me knows that I have done wrong, although at times I do question how it did, in fact, turn so sour. But this... I _need_ this. Already, my love for my mate is returning, and...

She needs this just as much as me. This place. This happiness. This court.

This _comfort._

Aurora lets go of my hand just before we enter the living room.

Thesan shoots up at the sight of her, and it is Auralis that acts slower than his mate now—something which seems as though the roles are reversed, at least from what I have seen of them with Aurora so far. My gaze flickers between Thesan and Auralis as Thesan crosses the room to reach his daughter, and with my newfound knowledge... how had I ever missed it? Auralis and Aurora are almost identical, aside from the feminine and masculine ways that they are separated; even down to the freckles dotted across their nose, the slope of their brows—

"Aurora," Thesan breathes in relief. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around her, and gently, Aurora wraps her arms around her father, too. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she says quietly.

Auralis' gaze meets my own, still trained on him, and...

And it is piercing. 

The gaze of a protective father.

Why do my lips curve up into an amused—perhaps smug—smile at the sight?

Thesan lets out a sigh. "I am just glad you're well. You're safe. And..."

"And happy," Aurora finishes, her voice quieter than before.

For a moment Thesan is quiet as he stares at her, his lips pressing tighter and tighter together, and then—

"Yes," Thesan says, "I suppose that _is_ why we have come."

Aurora blinks up at him. "And what is your answer?"

Thesan shakes his head in a tired sort of exasperation, and he turns to me a moment later. "Perhaps we should discuss this over breakfast."

I gesture to the table that Auralis sits at; the circular table that Thesan had, too, sat at before.

"Please," I say, gesturing for them to sit.

Aurora flashes me a smile as Thesan makes to move, and then she follows after him. I am the last one to sit, which leaves only the seat to Auralis' right left—and despite Auralis' clear anger, perhaps merely at having to _be_ here, I do not hesitate to sit in it.

"Auralis," Aurora smiles softly, sheepishly, at her father—the father she has no idea is related to her just as much as Thesan.

He frowns at her, folding his arms a moment after. Aurora's expression falters, and I cannot help but move my fingers closer to hers reassuringly at the sight of it. She does not hesitate to wrap her own slender fingers around mine.

Thesan begins, looking at me, "The food is a welcome—"

But it is Auralis that interrupts him, and it is Auralis that says in Aurora's direction, "Apparently you are unhappy in the Dawn Court."

I straighten my shoulders, my gaze on him narrowing. _Straight to it, then._ Thesan closes his eyes in exasperation.

Aurora takes a deep breath as she straightens in her chair, and as she reaches for some berries and puts them on her plate, Auralis keeps his gaze on her—on her every movement.

"Yes," she responds simply.

"Is it not enough?" Auralis demands. "We have guards stationed at every corner, two of your closest friends as your own persona guard—"

"It's not that simple," Aurora interrupts, and the gaze she gives him in return is just as piercing as his own had been moments before. "It's..." Aurora pauses as she tries to think over her words, and it is a short while before she continues, "the Dawn Palace is so big. And Spring... this palace is not small, not at all, but is cosy. Homely. I already feel as though I know everyone in it. And Dawn... there are so many nameless faces, so many staff that it is overwhelming. I got to know Rowena and—"

My thumb swipes at her hand soothingly, and she takes a shuddering breath.

"And it did not end well for me," Aurora continues, softer now. "I just... I love Dawn. I do. I love the land and the people outside of your court, papa," she says in Thesan's direction now, "but I am tired of... of feeling afraid and lost. I want to stay here so that I can grow, so that I can feel safe. I feel safe here. _Tamlin,_ " she says, turning to look at me, "makes me feel safe."

And for a moment it is just the two of us as we stare at one another, as we share a silent look of love, as—

"I do not want to be a grandfather at the ripe age of five hundred," Auralis scowls.

Aurora's mouth is agape as she turns to look at him, and it is _Thesan's_ turn, now, for his hand to tighten around Auralis' own. I look slowly back at Aurora's fair-haired father in annoyance. I don't know how long I will be able to keep my temper if he keeps acting like this, if he keeps being so forward—

"What my mate means," Thesan says slowly, "is that we are worried that if you stay here, things might..."

"Escalate," Auralis finishes. This time, there is no interruption from Thesan. "A few weeks ago you were strangers. And now you are mates."

For a moment, Aurora is silent. And then— "You know? You know that we're..." she looks to me briefly, "mates?"

Auralis shakes his head and looks away, but it is Thesan that responds, barely masking his amusement, "It is quite hard _not_ to know. At least at this point, dove."

Aurora closes her eyes, taking it all in, and then—she sighs as she returns her gaze to her father. "Regardless, I am not a youngling anymore. I can do what I want."

"To a degree," Thesan says softly.

Aurora looks at her father pointedly. "Why? Because I'm your property?"

Thesan presses his lips together and averts his gaze.

"That is the truth of it, isn't it?" She demands.

"By law," Auralis responds slowly, "yes. Just as Tamlin's daughters would be his."

"Do not," I say, my tone of voice low, bordering on threatening, "make this about something it is not."

Auralis' jaw clenches as he regards me, but it is Aurora that distracts me—Aurora's hands as they splay in front of her. "So what? So what if things end up happening?" She demands. "I love this male. I love this male because he makes me feel safe; because he is my mate. But I am not—I am not ready to have children, if that's what you're concerned about. All I want from you—from you both," she says, looking between Thesan and Auralis now, "is for you to trust me. Trust that I know my own mind, because for the longest time it has _not_ been my own to control. Please. I just want—I want to be here, in a place that makes me feel happy, a place where I have not felt happiness in such a way for the longest time. I am hardly in the state to take on any duties or—or parent any children. I just want to be here," she says, her fingers tightening around my own, "and be happy. I want to be safe."

For a moment there is silence between us, the only sound in the room the ticking of the clock and the distant in-out motions of the tide.

"With all due respect," I say gently, "Aurora has made her refusal to accept the bond quite clear."

Aurora lowers her gaze, and I can tell she's ashamed—ashamed of being reminded of it again. I would not have done so if I didn't think it would benefit us right now, however, and...

And with the way Thesan takes a deep inhale and sits back in his chair, I hope I am right.

"You may stay," he says.

Aurora looks up at him with wide, shocked eyes, and her lips part in that very same awe. But it is Thesan that speaks again—Thesan, not my mate, not my love, not my lover who shall _stay,_ who shall remain—

"But," Thesan continues, "I expect, after the Winter Solstice, for you to take up lessons. Not your lessons now—you have progressed well with them, and truthfully, you are far too old to be continuing with them. Not unless you want to. You must start lessons to... to control this power inside of you."

So much at once: good and bad, bad and good. Lessons—lessons to control her power, lessons which will make her a target, lessons which will make the entirety of Prythian believe that she is Thesan's heir. My heart thuds in fear of the very idea of it, of the comments, of the attention—

I shake my head and fold my arms. She does nothing at the lack of contact; nothing, likely because she is too shocked to do anything but stare at her father. "Thank you," she breathes. "I—"

"Listen to me," Thesan says, sitting forward now.

Auralis averts his gaze.

"You have my power in you," he tells her, and I blink at how sudden it is—how quick. "And you have part of my mate in you, too."

Aurora blinks at him. "I..." She looks at Auralis and then back to her father. "What?"

"You were Cauldron made, dove."

For a moment there is silence; silence as Aurora stares, her expression blank; silence as Auralis looks back at Aurora and leans forward, tense, anticipating Aurora's reaction; silence as heat courses through my system like a tsunami of rage, of anger that they would tell her so insensitively, so quickly—

"Really, Thesan?" I hiss at him. "That quick?"

Auralis leans forward and growls. "You do not get to dictate how she is told. You have controlled far too much already."

I do not stop myself from snarling at him, from making to rise. "You _dare_ talk to me in such a way in my very—"

"Stop," Aurora whispers, her fingers flat against the table. "Stop."

My breathing is still surged by anger when I look at her—when I see her gaze still glued to Thesan.

"Explain," she says quietly, her voice barely audible, "now. Explain right now."

And so he explains—slowly, this time, and I find my seat once more as he goes. He tells Aurora more information than I even know. How he and Auralis' had desired to be parents, to start a family; a witch in the mountains; how he had given part of himself and part of Auralis; how Aurora had been born from it months later. How that power inside of her is as much her father's as it is her own.

And when Thesan is done, when the story is told, all Aurora does is stare at her father with parted lips and disbelief in her eyes and I fear Thesan might have broken her, might have broken her for good, might have taken that last part of her entirely and—

Aurora turns to look at Auralis with parted lips, with a strange, wistful look in her eye, with—

With recognition.

Auralis stares back, his throat bobbing, and then he lowers his head in shame—shame or emotion or some sort of combination of the two.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks, her gaze unmoving from Auralis' own.

It is Thesan who responds; Thesan who swallows thickly. "We never found the right time."

"All these years," Aurora whispers, sitting back in her chair. "All these years, I..."

Thesan asks softly, "Did you not ever wonder why you and Auralis look so alike?"

Aurora lets out a breath and shakes her head. "Papa, I thought you had a fetish for Peregryn."

I let out a crude huff of amusement and Thesan merely balks at her, his lips parted in surprise. Later, I might comment that Aurora isn't wrong; that he seems to have a great appreciation for wings indeed. But I do not mention it, not now, not when the topic was a few mere seconds ago so serious.

"With..." Auralis begins, but he takes a breath before he continues, and he looks at Aurora as all eyes turn to him, "with Amarantha's rule, we did not think it wise to disclose even our mating bond. We did not think it wise to disclose the origin of your birth, either. It was another thing she could use against your father. Use against me."

Silence. Aurora does not even flinch at the mention of Amarantha's name, and I commend her for that.

Aurora's tone is harsher than I expect when she responds, "You have always been a father to me, Auralis. Always. Even when things were awkward after... after under there, when I hardly felt I knew you, you were a father to me before I even knew it. Even then." She takes a breath, averting her gaze to Thesan. "But this changes nothing about the fact that I wish to stay here."

Auralis frowns. "I do not want to change the topic so soo—"

Aurora looks at him with her gaze soft and yet—firm. Firm and determined. "This is a lot for me to think about."

Auralis seems to understand when he closes his eyes; when he nods somewhat and tilts his head downwards. When he removes himself from the conversation entirely. 

My mate looks at me then, a movement I am not entirely expecting, and I blink at her as she says without weakness, "You knew."

I straighten my shoulders, and suddenly—out of all things—I am intimidated by that look in her eye. "Only for a day. Your father told me yesterday, and I did not think it was my secret to tell."

She stares at me in silence, her lips pressing together, and then—her shoulders slump softly, slowly. "I suppose you were right about that."

I give her a look—a look that is apologetic—right before I move my gaze to Thesan. "This training you mention," I say, my gaze narrowing, "what of it?"

Auralis leans back in his chair. "Careful, Tamlin. Your misogyny is showing."

I clench my jaw, turning to Thesan. "Control your mate."

"He is his own person," Thesan responds, firmer than usual. He narrows his eyes on me. "He does as he likes."

I snarl at him. "And in my court, _I_ do as _I_ like."

Aurora kicks me— _kicks_ me under the table. I grumble in annoyance, glowering at her briefly before my gaze averts to some far-off spot off in the distance. 

"What of this power?" She demands, her voice strong—confident. "What am I to do with it in the meantime?"

"For now, we watch and observe," Thesan answers. "If you feel yourself growing agitated frequently, if you feel your mood shifting, then it is a sign."

Aurora is quiet as she considers it, as she takes it all in, and then she looses a breath and nods.

I demand, "And what of the rumours? What about when people begin to believe she is your heir?" I hate the idea of her training, _hate_ the idea of how it looks—

Thesan sits back in his seat. "Perhaps soon the signs of succession will show in somebody else, some distant relative, and then... well. Then the rumours will be null and void."

Aurora closes her eyes. "Rumours," she says, as if tasting the word on her tongue. "I hate rumours."

I realise then as the weight of the world crashes down on her shoulders that she has been through so much, that she has had so much happen to her, that she is still healing from all of it, that she only saw the sky again just over a year ago. Aurora—sweet Aurora, at least in times of peace and harmony, but when it comes down to it... I know that there is strength to her, at least where it counts. It's not a fighting strength, not if what I have seen of her run-in with the spriggans is anything to tell me of her fighting skill, but...

She survived all those years under Amarantha's thumb. That means _something._

And I will not let her spend a moment more with that weight crashing down on her.

I waste no time in standing. "We are done here, then."

Thesan opens his mouth—presumably to object—but it is Aurora's hand that wraps around my forearm. "Wait."

I look at her, my heart thudding, my senses still sparking a wildfire in my system even now. "Love—"

But Aurora shakes her head. It is a silent request to be quiet, and I press my lips together in a firm show of displeasure.

"I..." She swallows thickly. "Rowena. What..." _What happened to her?_

The words do not come out.

I look at Thesan then, my gaze piercing, daring. _She doesn't have to know,_ my green eyes say—and it is not out of fear of what Aurora will do, not entirely. I know that one day she may not take it very well. But right now...

Right now is not the time for her to learn what I did. It is not the time for her to blame herself for Rowena's death.

Let her heal. Let that brightness return to her again. And when the time is right, the truth will be told.

Thesan, when his gaze slowly slithers to me, seems to think the same thing, too.

"She was sent back to the Priestesses," Thesan lies, his head tilting upward, and then he looks back at Aurora. "She will not be serving in the Dawn Court any longer."

Aurora lets out a breath. "She is alive?"

Thesan nods, but only slightly.

I do not dare take a glance at Auralis. I wonder if Thesan has told him; I wonder if he mentioned what I did to that Priestess. If Auralis knows, however, he says nothing.

"Oh," Aurora breathes, and she releases her hold on my arm a moment later. When I look at her, her eyes are trained on the dining table. The look in her eyes tells of a mind deep in thought. "Okay."

"You are safe," Thesan tells her warmly. "She will not harm you."

Aurora pauses, and then— "Thank you," she says, looking between Auralis and Thesan. "Thank you both."

Nobler this time, with far less tension, Thesan inclines his head.

Auralis swallows a lump in his throat, his arms folding across his chest, and then—he nods, too.

There is little to be said of the conversation that happens after; at least, very little aside from Aurora's request to have Margie, the cat I bought her, brought to Spring. Because when Thesan and Auralis say their reluctant goodbyes, when Aurora requests that Auralis visit so that they might spend some private time together, all I care about is wrapping my arms around the female I love. And as much as I can feel the anxiety that swirls in Aurora's stomach as she watches them go, anxiety that the mating bond deems it important for me to feel just as hard as she, all I can focus on is the fact that she is here, that she will remain, that she is where she belongs.

And when finally, _finally,_ it is just the two of us on that doorstep—

I turn to her and pull her closer, and I cup her cheeks a moment later. Aurora closes her eyes and takes a breath, and it is the steadying sort that speaks of a cry for comfort, a cry for reassurance. I will not part from her while she cries it.

"A new chapter," she murmurs.

Her eyes open, but there is a sort of sadness in them as she gazes upon me.

It is one that I do not expect.

I brush my thumb out across her cheek, soothing, loving. "What's wrong?"

Aurora stares up at me, quiet, and then gently, she shakes her head. "Nothing. It's just... I'm happy. Overwhelmed and anxious but—happy. I'm happy to be here."

Gently, I smile. "Welcome to Spring, my love."

Aurora smiles. "Mm," she hums, "More like welcome home."

And she is right.

Home—Aurora is home.

She is to remain—she is to stay in my court with me, with me, _with me—_

My mate.

Nobody will take her away this time. Nobody will steal her away at the night. Nobody will take her at the altar.

And if they try; if somehow they are successful, I will not be as lenient as last time.

Because this time, all that will await them will be fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I always feel iffy about ones with dialogue because it messes with the flow, so I hope it didn't feel off at all. There was a lot to squeeze into this chapter, and I know there's no mention of Aidos, but don't worry. I haven't forgotten our injured angel boy.
> 
> Have a lovely weekend, and don't forget to follow me on TikTok (tamlinsproudlength) for an acosav inspired surprise!


	50. Aurora

In the weeks that pass during my stay at the Spring Court, I make the townhouse my home.

Furniture, artwork, decor—I add it all, and every time Tamlin returns and takes in the new additions to the house, he says nothing. But he always pauses; pauses to take it in, pauses to admire my handiwork, and he always gives me a small smile before he either makes his way upstairs to the study or shrugs off his doublet to reveal only his shirt underneath. I like the latter the most: the removal of his doublet means he is done for the day, that he is mine alone, and on those nights, on those cold evenings where it’s just the two of us before the fire with his arms around me while I read to him, I’ve never known peace like it.

It’s strange being somewhere so quiet. The lives of the townspeople go on outside, of course, but inside, it’s just the two of us. No servants, no cooks, no gardeners. It’s our place.

It’s good for me—having a space of my own. And despite the lack of guards, despite the lack of protectors, I feel safe even when Tamlin isn’t around. I know the townspeople here now—the smiling faces that greet me when I enter their stores, or the giggling children that ask me for a new story every time they see me, stories that I sometimes read to them in the town square. And I know that nobody here poses a threat to me, nobody like Rowena, although I try to avoid looking at the High Priestess temple on the far side of the city, the farthest spot from the town that overlooks the sea.

Whenever it’s time for a High Priestess to join Tamlin’s court, I hope she’s not the same as Rowena—and I hope that whenever that happens, it’s far away. 

But with the Winter Solstice fast approaching…

I shake my head. I don’t want to think about that.

Sometimes, the thought pops into my head and I have to swiftly distract myself with either shopping for presents or practising my cooking. I’m not the best, not when the food sometimes comes out burnt, but I’m slowly getting there. I like the making part rather than the _eating_ part, but Tamlin never seems to actually _eat_ the food that I offer him. I give it to the townspeople instead, and most of the Tamlin and I dine either at the palace or in one of the restaurants in the city anyway.

One day, however, I put a slice of cake on Tamlin's plate without a word, without even asking him if he wants any. It looks so good that I'll be surprised if he can resist it.

Tamlin looks up at me, his brows raised. “Aurora, you know I can’t accept this.”

But I don’t—I don’t know. I frown at him and ask, “Does it look that terrible?”

I look at the cake, covered in chocolate ganache that I had hardly been able to stop myself from eating as I set it aside to cool, and the sight of it makes even my stomach rumble in hunger. But I don’t miss the way that Tamlin’s eyes rake hungrily down _my_ body, the way he takes me in as he tries to resist the lust in his eyes—

That's how it's been for the past two weeks. Lust. Hunger. Lust. Stolen touches in corridors, quiet glances at one another in busy rooms.

Neither of us have given in yet.

“If I eat any of this food,” he says darkly, quietly, “then I will not be able to stop myself from touching you. And I do not think you’re ready for that just yet.”

For a second I simply blink, my eyes full of confusion, and then—

I understand. And oh, how stupid it makes me look—not realising that one bite of that cake could mean that I could accept the mating bond for _good._

If he was a terrible male, if he were selfish, he would have eaten that up and taken me then and there. But he hasn’t. He doesn’t.

Of course, it’s the bare minimum. Respecting my time, my boundaries—it shouldn’t be something that impresses me. But considering that such kindness felt far off after everything, after having my mind invaded for all those years, after Amarantha, and after… Rowena… 

It means a lot.

Everything that Tamlin has done for me means a lot.

And so instead of saying anything else, instead of addressing the topic, I clear my throat as I pull the cake from him and move it to the other end of the table. He stares at it; stares at it with that sort of primal urge I _know_ clouds his instincts, his senses, one I’m not sure how he even fights back against. But I know that I respect him for it.

Living like this…

It had seemed so far off before. And now, it just seems normal. Pleasant. Comforting. Even the lust feels normal—so normal that I know how to quickly shift the mood by now.

I clear my throat. "What are your plans for this afternoon?"

Tamlin grimaces, as if suddenly brought back to the present. Good. He looks up at me from his seat at the dining table as he responds, "I have meetings until dinner. Apparently, returning a court to full functionality is not something that happens overnight."

I smile softly, sympathy in my gaze as I look at him. "Are the humans still proving difficult?"

His gaze darkens at that. "It is not so much the humans as it is the sentries guarding their lands."

I tilt my head. I don't entirely understand it—politics is not my strong suit—but I know that the wall being gone means that our lands are at a certain degree of risk... and that other courts sent sentries to guard the wall when Tamlin's court was no longer functional. Now that the Spring Court is up and running again, some of its former members of staff have returned to defend it—not to mention that I've met a few townspeople who have returned to Spring from when they fled to summer, too. They all seem pleasant enough, and they all seen more than happy to entertain me for a moment of their time. They seem to love showering me with gifts, too: bouquets of flowers, tasty treats, anything I seem particularly interested in. I have never known kindness like it. 

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly.

A low rumble sounds from Tamlin's chest as he looks away, his gaze clouded in thought. I wait for an explanation—an explanation that doesn't come, not when he clenches his fists and stares at them as if willing away the claws I know are likely threatening to slip out.

My fingers brush gently over his shoulder—reassuring, grounding. "Tamlin?"

He shakes his head and makes to stand, the wooden chair scraping under him, and I blink as he takes a step forward and says, "I must go. I have meetings."

My lips part in confusion. "Already? But—"

"Will you join me at the palace for dinner later?"

I know what that means—no ifs, no buts. He cannot get out of these meetings, although I have a feeling that he hasn't even tried.

I frown at him, my displeasure evident, but regardless I respond, "Yes."

And then, with a smile in my direction and a kiss to my forehead, he is gone.

Later, I try to distract myself by curling up in front of the fire with a blanket and a book, and for the life of me I try to push our conversation—and my irritation—from my mind. But when I end up reading the words over and over again in an attempt to finally take them in, I know that enough is enough. And although it is a usual occurrence for my thoughts to drift off to Tamlin—to what he is doing, how he is feeling, how soon I will see him again—it is our conversation earlier that is an _unusual_ occurrence. And perhaps it is none of my business; perhaps this is to do with the politics of his court, not me, not when he likely thinks it's none of my business to know. But although this court is not officially my own, although having duties assigned to me in a formal sense would stress me out...

I feel for the people in this town. I _love_ the people in this town, and I very much love Tamlin. And if there is trouble anywhere; if there is something to be done about it...

I want to be able to help. Sperover's inhabitants make me feel cosy and warm just as much as this townhouse, and I will not stand for any unease in Spring.

And so as I snap my book shut, as I tug on my emerald velvet cloak—it's not as cold as Winter here, but it's certainly nearing the colder Spring temperatures—I try to push the nerves from my system. Part of me tells me not to do this—part of me tells me it might be more trouble than it's worth. But Cora knows sentries; if she can even give me a snippet of information... 

It will be enough.

I lock the door to the townhouse behind me, shut the gate as I go, and then I am making my way down the street—the street that leads south towards Cora's home. I smile at faces I recognise as I walk by, spying _Greeneman's Threads_ as I go, but mostly, I keep my head lowered with intent.

Cora's home is closer to the docks, less grandiose than my own, and it's also smaller than the townhouse in size. The two floors of Cora's home could likely fit in the entirety of the bottom of my own. But with its cramped stairway, cluttered bookshelves and even smaller upstairs room, Cora, apparently, feels right at home. It's certainly not an unpleasant space, not even if Cora is far more unorganised than me; not with such beautiful architecture, not with the pristine walls lined with wood, not with the way the gentle breeze trails through the window and makes the sheer, pale curtains sway in the breeze. It is a gentle home for a hardened warrior, and I can see why she likes it so much.

I rap my knuckles on the front door, and I am waiting only a mere few seconds before it opens ajar—and then Cora, when she recognises me, opens it wider. "Rora?"

I smile as I greet her, although it isn't as convincing as I like. "Are you busy?"

Cora glances over me; at my finery, at the green dress I wear—the same colour as Tamlin's favourite doublet—and at the glow that has long since returned to my skin. She responds, "You're just in time, actually."

She opens the door and I step through, glancing around me at familiar surroundings. A cooking stove, bookcases, comfortable seats, a small room that leads to a bathroom—and stairs which lead up to her bedroom. "Just in time?" I ask, only once the door closes behind us.

She shrugs. "I had company."

Softly, my lips quirk upward. "Morrigan?"

She glares at me. "Stop it."

I snicker, glancing away. Once I settled into Spring, it gave Cora and myself more than enough time to catch up—more than enough time to simply _be._ My father still pays her to guard me, and I think he likes knowing that he has one of his soldiers in Spring to keep an eye on me, but I trust that Cora would never tell him anything personal unless it were crucial. I would much rather have Cora close by than have some Dawn sentry spying on me, and... and Cora is my best friend. Spring would feel mighty empty if Cora wasn't here.

It's my turn to shrug softly. "I was wondering if you know any sentries."

Cora blinks. "You need more protection?"

I shake my head. "No. Tamlin has been having trouble with them, and he refuses to talk to me about it."

Cora's brows furrow, her arms folding. "I see. And what are you going to do about it?"

I smile at her, mockingly innocent. "Find out what is going on myself, of course."

Cora grins at me. "I missed that look in your eye, A."

I let out a soft huff of laughter, tugging my cloak tighter around me. It's not cold in here, not with the fireplace gently crackling in the hearth, but it's a movement of habit. "I would like to meet some of them, if possible."

Cora frowns. "Why?"

Softly, I shrug. "People think I am Lady of this court. And although I do not want duties _officially,_ I do not want them thinking that _I_ think I am too high and mighty for them." I will meet these people—I will make sure that they know I understand. That I will listen.

I want them to know that Spring is in safe hands. Because if Spring falls...

I fall with it.

Cora regards me for a moment, and then—she nods. "Alright," she says, grabbing her coat from the hanger near the door, "let's go."

I blink at her. "Right now?"

Cora grins at me. "I know just the place—just the _people_."

I let out a breath of apprehension, but it doesn't stop me from following her when she leaves the house and closes the door behind her. We walk a relaxed pace, engaging in casual chatter as we go, but it stops entirely when I see where she leads me to.

"A tavern?" I near-squeak, pausing before the steps—the steps that lead up to the narrow porch that Cora now stands on.

She looks at me with raised brows, amusement curving her lips up. "Yes?"

I glance between her and the tavern, uncertain. "Papa said taverns are filled with thieves and murderers."

Cora gapes at me, her face running through a series of shocked expressions mixed with exasperation. "Heavens above, Aurora, your father said those things to stop you from going in them. Come on. I promise nobody is going steal from you—especially not when they think you're Lady."

I press my lips together. She _does_ have a point. "Alright," I breathe, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "Let's go."

And when Cora opens the tavern door, when it shuts behind us, I barely have time to take in the scene around me—not when everyone goes quiet at the sight of us.

If I were any more naive, I might wonder if it's the lack of fighting leathers. But no—there are people other than sentries in here, people who wear casual clothes not too different to mine... although the majority of the bodies in here _are_ sentries. And I can see as they rake their eyes over me, some of them raising their brows, that they know very well who I am; that they know I am the High Lord's mate.

My wings fall slack with nerves at my side as I avert my gaze; as my brown hues flicker left to right over unfamiliar faces and the weapons strapped to their bodies. The males and females in here are fighters, but they are certainly not thieves and murderers. They are protectors, just like Tamlin, and they are loyal to their court—just like Tamlin.

So what, exactly, is bothering him so much that he refuses to talk to me about it?

But I don't have time to think on that any further, not when Cora's fingers wrap around mine—not when she tilts her head upward proudly and announces to the room, "No need to stop on our account."

And the breath of relief that leaves my lungs clears the way for me to take in the scene around me at long last.

The tavern itself is square in size—cosy too. While the building's interior hosts pale walls lined with dark wood like the rest of town's buildings, the warm glow from the centre of the fireplace in the wall to my left casts an orange glow about the room. It's a glow that warms both the people within it and the atmosphere itself. Circular tables are dotted about, each wide enough to fit at least six people, and ornate pale tankards painted with roses litter the majority of the tabletops like a painting of life returned to Spring. And while the room might be largely made up of sentries, males and females who look hardened by the things they've seen, there are friendlier faces, too—females garbed in pink, bar-maids that weave between seats to deliver drinks to buyers, lonely patrons simply minding their business in the comfort of a warm room.

I decide very quickly that I like this place, but I have yet to decide on the people within it. I want to like them—it is very easy for me to like people, after all. But something in me tells me that speaking to these people might be even more difficult than speaking to Feyre.

Feyre had loved Tamlin, after all. Perhaps part of her still does. But these people—Tamlin's people...

It is different, somehow. I do not entirely understand it, but it is.

Thankfully, when the noise in the room returns to its previous volume, Cora begins leading me over to a table—a table to the right, tucked away near an alcove that is lined with a bench and some books. Two sentries alone sit at thiso ne, and the brown-haired one, taller than the other, glances up at me as we approach. Only when he nudges his friend in the side does the black-haired one look up at me. He's stockier than his friend—more muscular, too—and there is bruising around his eye that does not at all soften the way he looks at me.

The brown-haired male stands to greet me, and when his friend reluctantly follows suit, I resist a grimace at the sight. I don't want any more attention drawn my way.

"Hart," Cora nods to the dark-haired one, but Hart's gaze doesn't move from me. He only watches me intently, his gaze scouring over every inch of me—and then again once he's done—in a way I don't entirely understand. At least the fairer male can draw his eyes away from me when Cora continues, "I see you're just as ugly as you were yesterday."

"Imagine waking up in the morning to it," the brown-haired sentry grins at Cora.

I tilt my head as I glance over them, taking them in once more. Are they together? But I don't get a chance to think on it any longer—not when the brown-haired male bows deep. Not when his friend—lover?—follows suit.

"Lady," he says. "I'm Bron, and this, as Cora said, is Hart. It's an honour."

I flash them a nervous smile, glancing about the room—and to the watching eyes that swiftly glance away when my own gaze falls upon them—before back at the two males before me. "The honour is all mine."

Bron straightens, his smile small and somewhat apprehensive. "Is there something we can do for you?"

I blink at him, but it is Cora that responds, "Aurora wanted to meet you."

The way Bron speedily looks from Cora to me tells of his disbelief. "Us?"

I smile at them. "Cora said she had sentry friends."

Bron and Hart glance across at one another, fear in their eyes, and then— "Is something wrong?"

My gaze on them softens somewhat. "No. I wanted to meet you. Well, ah... I wanted to meet the sentries that guard our lands," I smile sheepishly. "I know the townspeople well by now, but I realise I haven't much shown my face to the people that guard it."

Bron glances at Hart again. "You want to get to know us?"

I smile at him again. "If I'm not a burden, yes."

Bron gapes at me. "Never, Lady," he says, a breath of something not unlike laughter, like disbelief, following. "You are most welcome."

My smile at him is soft.

Cora glances between the three of us, and then her gaze settles on me. "What do you want to drink?"

My lips part, but I'm not entirely sure. What does one usually drink at a tavern? But my hesitation must tell of my uncertainty, because Cora grins at me and says, "Never mind. I'll get you wine."

She weaves past me, and then—she glances back at me. "You okay here?"

I nod at her with a smile, watching her go, and then I am looking back at Bron and Hart.

"Cora said you two were close," Hart says, "but I didn't realise you were _that_ close."

Softly, still smiling, I shrug. "She's been my best friend since we were young."

I realise only then that we're still standing, if only because of the way there are still countless eyes on us.

"Please," I gesture to their seats, "no need to stand for me."

Somewhat awkwardly, the two males sit—as if they're not used to such an order, such kindness. Bron flashes me a smile as I follow suit.

"You will have to forgive the way these people stare," Bron says as he leans toward me, waving a hand towards the throng of seated patrons. I lean forward, too, and I find then that I very much like this male, with the way he engages with me right away—with how _polite_ he has been so far. Bron continues, "It isn't very often they see the mate of a High Lord in a lowly place such as this."

Hart huffs, bringing his tankard to his lips. "As lowly as it might be, it has some good ale."

Bron nods, raising his own drink. "I'll drink to that."

I laugh softly. "Do you two come here often?"

Bron shrugs. "Whenever we feel like it. We took up a house near the docks, so it's not too far away."

I smile at them. "And are you enjoying it? Your home?"

Bron lets out a breath that sounds very much like an expression of relief. "Summer was nice enough, but it's not Spring. I am more than glad to be home."

A low noise slips from Hart's chest as he brings his tankard to his lips again, and I wonder just what, exactly, that means. I lean back a little as I regard him; the way he drapes his arm over Bron's seat, the way Bron looks perfectly comfortable in his space. Yes, they are very much together. I might think they make a mighty good match indeed if it weren't for Hart's attitude.

"And you?" I ask Hart, attempting, at least, to be kind to him. "How are you enjoying being back in Spring?"

But Hart doesn't look at me—he just keeps his eyes trained on his tankard. "I think we should be asking you that question."

I blink at him, not entirely understanding. And when Bron tenses beside him, when he shoots his partner a sideward glance, I know that I am missing something; I know that there is something deeper going on, something I do not quite understand.

"Forgive Hart," Bron says somewhat awkwardly. "He's moody today. He's not used to losing fights."

I give Bron a smile—a smile that is smaller and weaker than the one before, but still, it is genuine. "Males. They are all the same." And although Bron might be one himself, I hope he understands just _what_ type of male I mean.

Bron lets out a huff of laughter as he brings his drink to his lips. "I see no lie there, Lady."

I smile at him, but then I avert my gaze to Hart once more. "I'm enjoying Spring very much, thank you."

Hart looks at me directly. "I'll ask you in a few months, then."

I don't miss the way Bron kicks Hart under the table. Hart grumbles in response, but even the way Bron smiles at me isn't enough to distract me from the words that had slipped from Hart's mouth seconds prior. My eyes narrow on him.

"Excuse me?" I ask, not unkindly.

Bron is tense as he sighs and says, "Hart, please."

Hart growls in annoyance. "She needs to know, Bron."

Slowly, my gaze travels to Bron, my gaze on him a silent question in itself. I do not entirely understand what is going on, but—

Bron sighs, momentarily closing his eyes. "May I speak plainly, Lady?"

I smile weakly at him, even despite the fact that my heart hammers with nerves. "You never have to ask."

Bron swallows, lowering his gaze. "The last time the High Lord had a Lady, we were not able to stop what happened."

I cannot stop the tension that slips into my body as I understand. And _oh,_ how I understand—I hadn't before, but I do now. Feyre has left a lasting impression on these people, on the inhabitants of Spring, and I must fix that.

Was I foolish to believe that it was just the High Lord that needed healing?

Did the damage Feyre did to Spring really have to extend as far as its people?

I glance between them, listening, waiting—

"We saw Tamlin keep his last lover on a tight leash," Hart says, his words far more direct than his partner's—far less fluffy than kind Bron's own. Even his grey eyes on me are cold. "We saw him throw her across a room."

Bron tenses. "Hart—"

"It's the truth. She needs to hear it."

For a moment, I just stare at Hart—at his black eye, his dark hair, at his grey eyes and the way there seems to be a weight on his shoulders that no amount of loving words or alcoholic beverages can lift. I see the same scars in him as I do in Tamlin; the hurt, the betrayal, and I wonder if that is directed at Feyre or Tamlin or perhaps both of them entirely. Feyre, who had torn apart the Spring Court and left nothing in its wake—Tamlin, who had let it fall to ruin, who had locked its Lady up in his madness, in his grief.

Just what have they seen?

Just how close were they to Feyre?

And as sadness creeps in behind my eyes, I think that I might like Hart. In any other situation where the two of us were not broken, were not scarred, I might like him. But now...

"Whatever you have seen," I say quietly, dangerously, "whatever you know, things aren't the same anymore."

Hart grits his teeth. "You say that, but where is your proof?" 

I splay my hands in front of me. "Look around you. Look at the town you now live in and tell me that it does not inspire hope. He was ruined—not just your court, but your High Lord. When I found him he would hardly open the curtains, and now..."

I shake my head. "I will not explain myself to you. I will not explain my love for him because I have done it time and time over. But I will say to you," I continue, looking between them, "that he is trying his utmost to get this court running again. He has a vision for this place and he wants you to be part of it, but he cannot do that if you are fighting against him during it."

The words tumble out before I even understand them, but...

Whatever complications Tamlin is going through, whatever issues the sentries have with him, I know somehow that I address it without even trying.

"We..." Hart leans forward now, his voice quieter than before, "We just want to know that you're safe."

One beat, two—quietly, I respond, "I have never been safer."

And just as quietly, Bron asks, "Do you mean that?"

I swallow, shaking my head. "He's been kind to me, Bron. He has been kind to me even when I hurt him; even when I hardly felt like I deserved kindness at all. He is still healing, and so am I. But he wants what is best for his court."

Hart says quietly, "Does he want what's best for you?"

Slowly, I turn to look at him, my brows furrowed. "He gave me a place to stay when I had nothing left. He begged my father to let me stay here because he knew—he knew that if I went home, there would be nothing left of me when he saw me again. He let me stay even though time and time again I have refused to marry him, even though he has to look at me and remember the fact that I will not accept the bond—"

Bron blinks at me. "You haven't—?"

I shake my head. Hart lets loose a breath. "We just assumed..."

Softly, a little tersely, I smile. "Everyone does. I don't bother to correct people anymore—not when I don't intend on leaving this place, not when I feel happier here than I ever did at home."

"You truly care for Spring?" Hart asks quietly.

I nod. "Perhaps too much."

Silence. Silence until—

"We loved him too," Bron blurs out, and my gaze is swiftly drawn back to the brown-haired male. "We—we _do_ love him. We're just..." He swallows a lump in his throat, and slowly, he works up to say his final word: "scared."

"Of what?" I ask.

Bron swallows. "Of all of it. Of Spring falling again, of—of the same happening to you.”

I shake my head. "If Spring fell once more, I would fall with it. And if Tamlin dared lay a hand on me..."

I would not be around for a second longer. Not when Dawn awaits me—when my father, another High Lord, awaits me.

"We would fall with you," Hart says quietly. "We wouldn't let you go through anything alone."

The smile I give him in response is grateful. I wonder just how much these males have seen—wonder just how much haunts them that they feel the need to promise their aid to me. Regardless, I will not refuse it. Not when these males likely need to warm up to me as much as I do to them. Not when they're part of Tamlin's court—part of _my_ court.

I spot Cora approaching with our drinks out of the corner of my eye, and my attention shifts momentarily back to her. She grins at me as she sets my drink down, the sweet smell of wine hitting my nostrils, and I do not hesitate to bring it to my lips. After such a conversation, I need it—and it isn't too bad, not with the fruity tang it leaves as an aftertaste. Cora sets drinks down in front of Bron and Hart, too, ones that they didn't ask for, and Bron flashes my best friend a grin in response.

Cora sits beside me once more. "What did I miss—and why do you all look like you've just received word of someone dying?"

I let out a breath, shaking my head. Hart mutters, "We were having a heart to heart."

Cora glowers at him. "We'll be having a fist to face if you're not careful, Hart."

The bulkier male lets out a bitter huff of laughter, and then he reaches for his drink and brings it to his lips. "Yeah, whatever," he mutters.

I let out a breath. "These two males were simply quizzing me on Tamlin's intentions."

Cora's brows rise as she brings her drink to her lips. "And what did you tell them?"

"The truth," I answer quietly.

Hart looks at Cora. "You make sure he treats her right. If he doesn't, I'll deal with him myself."

Cora rolls her eyes. "Easy. He's smitten with her, and I wouldn't recommend taking on a High Lord. Not with a face like that."

Hart frowns at the insult, but it is Bron that looks back at me. "He... Tamlin truly loves you?"

My smile is soft, bashful, as I lower my gaze. "Yes. Even if he _is_ stubborn and guilt-ridden and... half the time I think he'll never get over what happened with Feyre. But he loves me despite it. We... we're both healing from things together."

Cora snorts. "As much as he's territorial and ridiculously traditional, he _does_ make her happy." And then—a wrinkle of her nose. "Ugh. And you're not even mated yet."

Bron tilts his head. "Lady, that _does_ surprise me. I... forgive me for asking, but why?"

"I want to be able to commit myself to this court when I become Lady of Spring," I answer, taking another sip of my wine. The more it fills my system, the warmer I feel—and I'm grateful for it. It puts me at ease. "I'm still young. I've barely seen the world. I'm not sure if I'll be any good at all."

Bron smiles at me. "I think you'll do a wonderful job of it, if I may say so myself."

I tilt my head. "You truly think so?"

"You came here to meet us," Hart says, folding his arms. And when I look at him, when I expect some sort of elaboration, it's only then that he rolls his eyes and shrugs. "It's already more than any other High Fae noble would've done."

Slowly, my lips curve up into a smile. "My father is a sentry. Well—Captain of my father's guard. But he started out just the same as you."

Hart narrows his eyes on me, his head tilting. "Are you not the High Lord of Dawn's daughter?"

I open my mouth, suddenly realising my error, but Cora swipes a hand before I can answer. "Two dads. Don't question it."

And they do not.

Not even as we delve into our second round of drinks—technically Bron and Hart's third—and not even when our tongues get a little more loose. Not even when I am giggling; not even when Hart finally grins at me and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, not even when I snicker and end up in fits of giggles, not even when Bron murmurs something suggestive in my ear about Tamlin that he certainly wouldn't murmur if he were sober. Not even when Cora slams her fist down on the table and barks a laugh in Hart's direction and the two of them end up practically sparring in how loud the other can laugh—not even when day fades to evening and I lose myself in my company entirely.

Not even when the door swings open and Tamlin himself enters the tavern.

The noise in the room becomes quiet nearly instantly, but I don't realise straight away—not when alcohol warms my body, not when it makes me giggle and lose control entirely. I only realise my mate has arrived once a shadow stops beside me, to my left, and then—

"Aurora," Tamlin says, his voice choked. When I look up at him, his eyes are wide—wide with terror. "Are you alright?"

I gape at the sight of him, wine long since having rendered me an entirely different person. "Tamlin!" I beam.

Nobody seems to be smiling as wide as me.

Tamlin glances over me slowly, his eyes suddenly filled with something akin to anger, and when he looks at Cora that anger does not fade. "Is this your doing?"

Cora raises her hands in surrender. "She's perfectly capable of taking big girl gulps herself."

Tamlin sneers at her, but when he looks back at me... although for a moment there is naught but fire in his eyes, it softens as soon as his eyes are on me.

"You didn't come to the palace for dinner," he tells me. "I—" He swallows a lump in his throat. "I was worried."

My breath hitches in my throat as I suddenly realise just how terrified he is—just how worried he looks. I can't place what must have been going on in his brain, but I know it must have been filled with anxiety, with dread—

"I'm sorry," I tell him, standing, and I reach out to wrap my arms around his neck. "I lost track of time. I'm fine. I'm fine."

His hands find my back, and despite the fact that he's tense—tense as all eyes in this tavern are on us—he does not hesitate to pull me closer. These are the movements of a male showing a guarded front; the true feelings of a worry-stricken mate who has lost those he loved time and time again. 

Tamlin swallows, looking at Cora. "Next time," he says, his voice gravelly, nearly a snarl, "send word."

Cora doesn't give him a snappy response; she just nods. I wonder if she recognises the worry on his face, where it stems from, and can relate to it, herself. Or perhaps she truly recognises how detrimental showing her loyalty is when around soldiers like herself.

"Come," Tamlin murmurs to me, his lips brushing my ear, "let's get you home." **** ~~~~

I do not object, not when I feel so guilty for forgetting dinner; not when I feel terrible for losing myself in the wine and the jests. It had felt so normal, so strangely normal, that I had forgotten just who I am—and while it was a lovely feeling, it should not come at the expense of my mate's happiness. I'm getting sleepy, anyway, and it will be nice to get some fresh air.

Tamlin moves away and I follow him; take a step closer to the door. And then—

I turn to them, Tamlin's fingers still on my waist. "He's trying," I tell Bron and Hart in particular, my eyes wide as I meet their own. My words are encouraged by the drink in my system as I spill out: "He's trying so hard."

And I swear I see Hart, tense, staring at Tamlin with his eyes wide; I swear, after a while, as he stands there just as tense as my mate, that he eventually nods and lowers his head. And I swear I see Bron do the same.

We leave the tavern and the cool air hits me instantly. A world of laughter and friendship is temporarily forgotten under the starry night sky that looms over Sperover, and as I turn to Tamlin, I wrap my arm around him and pull him close with a shudder.

But however cool the temperature is, despite the fact that Tamlin wraps a protective arm around me, Sperover is not as cold as the terribly thoughtful silence my mate forces upon us when we make our way through the streets.


	51. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not read this at work. If you do... make sure nobody can see your screen.
> 
> I warned you.

Tamlin is deathly silent as we cross the threshold of the house. 

He snaps the door shut with a quiet flicker of his magic, the sound no more than a gentle click, and with a wave of his hand the room around us is suddenly bathed in a dim sort of light. It's as if I never left the house: my book still lies shut on the table, my blanket draped over the back of the sofa, and the cake I'd made earlier in the day lies under a cake cover on the table. My wings feel heavy as I turn and Tamlin in: that far-away look in his eye, the way his head hangs low, the way his gaze on me is empty, thoughtful.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, taking a hesitant step towards him. I want to touch him, want to reach out and feel him, but I don't let myself. Instead, my fingers intertwine with themselves. "I wanted to meet the sentries."

Tamlin is tense, quiet, as he responds, "I know."

I whisper, "You're upset."

For a moment, as he stares at me, he seems riddled with tension. It's that strong that I can smell it on him, thick and harsh as the bitter smell of smoke—and then it disappears. His shoulders slump with the lack of it, and I wonder just how much of him is left as he extends a hand to me despite it.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you to bed."

I press my lips together, but I don't make a move to take his hand. "I hurt you again."

Tamlin closes his eyes. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

It's my turn to close my eyes now—my turn to step forward, to take his hand without complaint. With all the worry I put him through tonight, there's no need to cause him any hassle.

His fingers are heartbreakingly gentle in my own as he guides me up the stairs.

Why do I keep making the same mistakes?

He is so much older than me—perhaps it is that. But perhaps not. Maybe I'm just selfish, maybe I just don't think, maybe—

"Careful," he murmurs, and I stop—stop to see that I'd been _just_ about to trip on my dress.

I sniffle, my cheeks heating up, and I feel terribly embarrassed even as he guides to the bedroom, even as he closes the door gently shut behind us. With my head hung, I move into the bathroom and leave the door ajar. I want to see if he leaves—I want to be able to stop him, to beg him to stay. But through the light in the doorway, I can see as I change into my nightgown that he simply perches at the edge of my bed; that he sits facing the door, waiting for me, likely listening, too. A reminder that I am, in fact, here.

And despite the fact that Tamlin has seen me in nightgowns plenty of times before, it has never been like this. It has never been without a robe over me, or in such terrible terms. And so as I close the bathroom door shut behind me, as I look up at him through my lashes, I cannot help but linger—linger in guilt and nervousness and all the confusing emotions under the sun.

"Hello," I whisper.

Tamlin tilts his head up as he looks at me, his shoulders straightening, and his gaze rakes down my body—the way my nightgown clings to my breasts as the neckline slopes low, the way the long sleeves add a certain amount of modesty and maturity to the gown that screams _me,_ the way the skirts hang so low that my toes can barely be seen at the bottom of it. I can see the hunger in his gaze and for a moment it is relieving; for a moment it is reassuring.

And then it is not. Because it disappears as soon as he has looked over me; as soon as he lowers his gaze once more.

"I will leave you to it," he says quietly, standing.

I stare at him. Press my lips together. I don't want him to leave—

It has been like this for weeks. Lust. Tension. Awkwardness. Lust again. I am tired of it; I am tired of what feels like an unintentional game.

I want to give in to one of those things entirely, whatever it is. I want this to end. I want—

I want to be his entirely. I don't want to linger or wonder or—or anything.

I just want to be his. I want him to know that I am his. He knows it in a sense, certainly, but...

Not enough. And I don't know how to show him to make it enough.

And yet even as Tamlin lowers his gaze and makes to leave, I cannot do anything except watch him, breathless, as he crosses my room, as his fingers ghost over the doorknob. He twists it and I hear the click of the door as he begins to open it and—

"I wanted to know," I blurt out. "I wanted to help."

Tamlin hesitates, his fingers pausing over the door handle, and there is a far-away look in his eye as he turns to me and asks flatly, "Why?"

I open my mouth to speak, but at first, no sound comes out. I avert my gaze, searching as I step away from the door, trying to find an answer to his question—

"You're my mate," I answer softly. "This is my court."

Tamlin's eyes narrow on me, and then he says five words that break my heart: "This is not your court."

I tilt my head upward, an attempt to seem defiant despite the fact that I have to swallow a lump in my throat at his words. They are hurtful, but I know what he means—that it is none of my business, not when I am not officially Lady. Not when I am not his mate.

I do not agree with it, but I understand.

"Tell that to your people," I say to him quietly.

Tamlin sneers at me. "You are a guest here, Aurora. You do not need to worry yourself with things that do not concern you."

I frown at him, my nose curling up into a dissatisfied scrunch. I take a desperate step toward him as I demand, "What about things that worry you? Things you won't talk to me about?"

He closes his eyes, his fingers falling from the doorknob. "Those things are my curse to bare."

"It doesn't have to be," I insist, my fingers splaying in front of me. I take a step forward. "You should talk to me—you should tell me what's going on."

Tamlin's lips curl into a snarl as he hurriedly, angrily, inches toward me. "What was I to do, Aurora?" He demands. "Would you have me list off all the reasons they have to hate me? I could tell you about the time I subjected one of their own to torture, if you like," he tells me, his voice wavering slightly, "and I could tell you of how he was innocent—how I see the way they look at me even now, see what _I_ did to him, see that they don't at all understand that it was that or—or show Hybern just how _weak_ I was, I—"

I step toward him and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him close. The silent sob that wracks his body tells me everything that I needed to know: that this was what he needed. To have me close, to have me safe, to have me near.

"You never have to explain anything to me," I tell him, my voice wavering. I hold him close; hold him like my life depends on it, hold him as he rests his head in the crook of my shoulder, awkwardly bent but comfortable, secure— "You never have to—to relive anything. I just want you to speak to me about what troubles you, my love, my—my mate," I waver, "because it hurts me so much to know that you are hurting, Tamlin, and I can do nothing to help it."

A choked, strangled sort of noise leaves his throat. "It is so hard," he whispers.

I clench my eyes shut. "Nothing about our relationship should be hard. I am yours—mind and body and soul I am yours," I tell him, my touch soothing as I stroke his hair back, "and we are mates. Equals. I will never judge you on your past misdeeds—I will never make you feel ashamed for your feelings. You would never," I tell him, my voice shaky, "do that for me. So I will not do it for you."

Tamlin moans. "But you—I cannot—I cannot tell you of all the things I have done, all the things I have—all the things people hold against me. You—you would not love me at the end of it, you would not—"

I tilt his head up to look at me, and then I kiss him.

After a moment, he kisses me back. The two of us are teary-eyed and choked up, just as damaged as the other, but in this moment we are one and the same. In this moment he has seen me at my worst—and I, too, have seen him at his. And I would never wish for him to show me any less.

When he pulls away from me, he is breathless—more breathless than usual after a kiss like this. And for a moment he just stares at me, eyes wide and hurting, and that is all he manages to do before he pulls me close to him and clutches me tight, tight as if I might slip away at any moment, tight as if this is the last moment left—

"I love you," he whispers. He pulls back only slighty, just enough so that he can pepper kisses across my face; my nose, my cheeks, my forehead. And yet not anywhere suggestive, not now, not when the mood hardly fits it. "I love you—I love you so much. Please don't do that again. _Please—_ "

"Tamlin," I say, my fingers cupping his face. My voice wavers with emotion as I say, grasping for him, "Tamlin. It's okay. Tamlin."

He looks up at me with those same wide eyes and I cannot help but pull him close; cannot help but close my eyes as I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight to me. He wraps his arms around me too and I breathe him in, take in his scent, memorise it like it's the last time I'll ever smell it—

"Come to bed," I say to him, reaching for the buttons on his doublet. Perhaps it's the alcohol in my system making me so confident, but I am unbuttoning them before he has a chance to say no. "I'm not—I won't leave you tonight."

Tamlin swallows thickly. "Are you—"

"I'm sure," I answer.

And when I push his doublet to the floor, when all that is left between us is his his thin undershirt, his breeches and my nightgown, despite the way that the sight of him so bare makes heat thud in my core, between my legs, I do not let anything suggestive enter my mind. Because when I pull him to bed, when our limbs become a tangle of comfort and cosiness under the covers, I want nothing more than to hold him close and protect him like this forever.

He is a High Lord. He can protect himself. But some things...

Some things require a gentler touch.

Taking care of him is effortless. And easy. And I would do it again and again. He has done it for me—he took me into his home time and time again when he did not have to.

 _Until death do us part,_ I think to myself.

My fingers are gentle as I run patterns over his face, as his eyes flutter closed at the touch, and I wonder if this is the first time I have ever, _ever_ seen true peace on his features. His high cheekbones, those analytical, piercing eyes... the softness on his features is unfamiliar to me even now, and it is a picture I wish to ingrain in my memory forever. I cannot help but brush my nose against his, cannot help but whisper against his skin even when I am unsure of whether he is awake enough to hear the words—

"You," I brush against his lips, "are delirious if you think that I would leave you after hearing a few horror stories."

Tamlin swallows thickly, shifting in a way that tells me he is still awake—just barely. "I have done terrible things," he mumbles.

I shake my head, my thumb caressing his cheek. Just as soft as before, I whisper, "You would not have fallen for me Under the Mountain. Never mind Feyre. I was a wreck—I would vomit any time Rhysand came near."

Tamlin goes still.

I realise what I said, what Tamlin doesn't know, only when I see his eyes slowly open with determination, when I hear him breathe in one deadly whisper: "What?"

I swallow thickly. Shake my head. I stroke his hair back as I say softly, "Nothing. Never mind."

Tamlin's entire body is tense as his fingers find my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "Aurora."

I press my lips together, wondering whether it is worth the explanation, but...

Keeping secrets will not be any good to us tonight. It is what I asked him not to do.

I sigh, averting my gaze. "Amarantha... she had him come and see me. Come into my mind. She... she never _could_ get much out of Papa, so she would try and see what I knew now and again. If there was anything I was hiding."

His eyes are livid as he makes to sit up. "I will kill him."

I close my eyes, both my fingers finding his shoulders—guiding him back down. He does not protest. "It was a long time ago," I say, looking at him now. "Part of me knows, too, that he had no choice. It does not make seeing him any easier, but..."

Tamlin is quiet for a moment, and then— "That is why you looked so terrified that day. That day with the peaches."

Softly, I nod.

Tamlin sucks in a breath. "Of course he would have harmed my mate, too. Of course."

I nestle against him, hoping the close contact will be enough to distract him—to distract _us_ from the topic of conversation. "It is just another sick little thing that ties us together," I say softly.

Slowly, Tamlin lets out a breath, and he draws patterns on the small of my back as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you."

"I scared you," I murmur softly. "It—after everything you have done for me, I didn't think. I'm so sorry."

Tamlin shakes his head, leaning forward to press a kiss to my nose, and I close my eyes at the feel of it. "We both..." He sighs, pulling away, and I open my eyes to gently gaze upon him. "You deserve to enjoy yourself. I just—when you didn't turn up, I assumed..."

"I know," I whisper. Even as I feel my eyes growing heavy, I reach for his hand; kiss every finger, just as he did to me a while ago. "I know."

Tamlin sucks in a breath. "You should sleep."

"Mm," I murmur, my eyes flickering shut.

"Regretting your little rebellious escapade?" He asks me. From the sound of his voice, he's grinning lazily.

My lips quirk up into a smile. "Promise me you will be here in the morning."

"I promise," he says softly in response.

I fall asleep with his arms around me, and I wake to just the same.

I see the sunlight first, weak and gentle in the early morning light as it streams through the eastern-facing window of my bedroom. I feel Tamlin's arms around my waist next; I doubt we stayed in the same position all night, but rather he has pulled me closer to him in some half-conscious movement that he hardly registers. And for a moment, as I listen to the birds chirping outside and the distant sound of the city beginning to awaken, I think that this is perfect—that this is everything I have ever dreamed.

Perhaps the change in my breathing is obvious, because Tamlin, a moment later, mumbles, "Morning."

I close my eyes again, stretching my legs a little. "Good morning."

I spin in his arms so that I am facing him, and with a lazy sort of look in his eye, I think that _this_ is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. The delicate points of his ears are just visible over his silken locks of hair, so different to the limp golden strands from weeks ago, and his shirt has long since been discarded onto the floor. I feel heat coat my cheeks at the mere feel of him against my skin.

Tamlin smiles lazily at me, his voice still laden with sleep as he says, "We should share a bed more often."

Softly, I smile. "I would not be opposed."

He smiles and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. I can only imagine how unruly my hair must look. Tamlin asks me softly, "How are you feeling?"

For a moment I am unsure of why he asks, and then—I remember what happened last night. I frown, moving to hide my head under the covers in shame. "No headache, if that is what you're asking."

Tamlin chuckles gently, pushing the covers away from me. "I'm surprised. You were _quite_ wobbly last night."

I grin lazily at him. "Daughter of healing. Perhaps I am immune."

Tamlin glowers at me. "That, my love," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead, "is not at all fair."

I snicker, burying my head in his chest, and Tamlin hums in approval. "Come with me today."

I peek up at him. "Don't you have duties?"

Tamlin growls, brushing my hair over his shoulder, and the feel of his fingers against my skin makes me tingle. "I want you today. Nobody else."

And the way he says those words...

They make me shudder.

But there is nothing suggestive about the way he cups my cheek, the way his eyes soften on me as he says, "Please."

And as the breath leaves my lungs, I shake my head. "You don't even need to ask."

***

He takes me to a willow.

Sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves above us as we lie atop a soft bed of grass, the two of us half asleep in the midst of the singing willow's weary ethereal melody. With the orchestra of birds around us, with the trickling of the brook which separates the glen, it's easy to lose myself in the presence of this very court's High Lord.

It's easy to drift in and out of sleep in his arms, and it's easier, too, to forget that we are not the only two people left in the world—that there is a world outside the two of us, that there is a court of people we must return to, that there is life outside of the shimmer that dances along the trees and glitters at the tips of their leaves.

It is beautiful here. Perfect. And with my High Lord beside me, I could never dream anything like it.

"I brought Feyre here, once," Tamlin says softly to me.

I look across at him, my eyelids coated with a gentle sort of heaviness, but I find that the way he looks at me is enough to wake me entirely. If not for the way he stares at me, naught but vulnerability in his eyes, I might have thought I dreamed it; I might have thought I dreamed those words, that admittance, that tender opening of his heart to me. But with such sadness in his eyes, with such openness... 

I would let him stare at me like that for eternity if he wanted to.

"Tamlin?" I whisper.

"I..." Tamlin props himself up on his elbow as his fingers brush aside my hair, and he moves it aside so that my collarbones are bare, so that it pools below me in the soft grass. "I want to... to take you to every place I ever took her," he admits to me—admits, because I can see how hard it is for him to be open, to speak from the heart, "and I want to make new memories with you. New memories that—that mean that I can visit these places without feeling like I am going to be torn apart."

And when I look up at him, my eyes wide, his words break my heart.

Such softness—such softness in one male, one broken male, a male who has been hit time and time again with grief and loss and trauma. I want to shield him from it all. I want to make sure nobody ever hurts him like that again.

Such a desire is almost enough to have me accepting the mating bond then and there.

Tamlin kisses my tears away one by one, catching them before they spill onto the grass below my cheeks. I force a breath, barely able to acknowledge that this is real—that this is real and true and I haven't died and passed onto some beautiful afterlife where I get to live with the ghost of the male who matters most. But it is real; I can tell by the way he presses kisses to my eyelids, to my cheeks, to my nose, to my lips. And only when he pulls away from me do I open my eyes.

He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Tamlin's skin gleams golden, the same sort of glow as the circlet of sunshine that hovers about his head. And his eyes—no longer green and gold but every hue and variation under the sun, a shimmer of colour as if every leaf in the forest blended into one. He glows less bronze than my own light, the light of the dawn, but he is still bright and powerful and—

"Glow for me, Aurora," he whispers.

And I do.

We are a blend of light as I breathlessly reach my fingers out to touch his cheeks, his nose, his lips. I have never seen a sight like it—I have never seen anybody glow like me. And yet he is here like a dream except he's real and powerful and Heavens above I think this love might end me, this love might be the death of me, that this love is so powerful that it might tear me apart—

His hands are on me, just as I reach out to touch him: on the sides of my chest, on my waist, on my hips—anywhere he can touch. He trails a finger down my chest slowly, wordlessly, his eyes never leaving mine, and then—further. Further until his fingers trail teasing patterns on my stomach in a way that has heat building in my core. My breath hitches in my throat as he travels down—down as he lingers over that sweet spot between my legs.

His touch—it does something in a way that makes my core thud with need for him.

"Tamlin," I whisper, my voice breathless.

"I want you like this," he whispers to me. "I want you like this every time."

Heat radiates from my face as his fingers graze my cheek. I am breathless, wordless, as he presses kisses to my collarbones; as he presses kisses to my chest, to the space just above the neckline of my dress that leaves my breasts bare. His fingers slip beneath the silk of my undergarments to find the new slickness there, and the growl that slips from his mouth reverberates against my skin.

Sleep had beckoned me before. The willow had called me to it, the lull of the birds and the brook blending into one sweet lullaby.

That desire to sleep is long gone now. 

Because when he lowers himself to come to a stop between my legs, the grass beneath his knees crunching with the movement, I do not care about the way my dress pools at my thighs; I do not care about the way he growls again at the sight of me, the way he swipes at the silk of my underwear with one long claw and shreds it into two. He still glows—glows like the light of a thousand suns, glows for _me,_ glows with the light and lust I feel for him, my mate my mate my mate—

"Tell me you don't want it," he whispers, and I can see the way he strains against his pants in front of me. Even the sight of him... it drives me wild. Tamlin chokes, "Tell me you don't want it and I'll—"

"Tamlin," I moan, my hips bucking up to meet him.

He snarls at my urgency, his long fingers tight on my thighs as he slips one clawless finger inside of me. I moan at the feeling, my head tilting back as he slides in and out of me with tauntingly slow strokes, and I cannot help but need more, more, more—

And when he touches that sweet spot on my wing, when he slips another finger into me with ease, it is too much—too consuming.

I'm gasping in a mix of pleasure and surprise when I look at him again, my expression quizzical, and he must recognise the look on my face because he grins—grins and keeps his slick movements of his fingers in and out of me. And oh, the way he looks at me—

"You didn't think I haven't been with females with wings before," he growls, "did you?"

My answering response is barely more than a whimper.

And then he is slipping his fingers from me and I am whimpering in protest, bucking my hips towards him again, and—

And the growl that slips from his lips as his mouth replaces where his fingers had been is almost enough to send me over the edge entirely. Almost. I groan, my body aflame, but it only prompts him to delve deeper, taunting, teasing with every stroke of his tongue—

My hips roll against him, but Tamlin only grips them tighter. Good. He can't keep his claws away now and yet they are devastatingly gentle on my hips; I want them to dig into me, to leave bruises, to leave me in pain at the end of it as a marker of his love—

"You are nothing I expected, Aurora," he whispers against me. "Nothing."

"Tamlin," I whisper, his name a plea on my lips.

The rumble he makes against me has me whimpering, writhing. He tightens his hold on me until those claws dig in a little more, until my breasts ache at the feel of it.

His mouth closes around the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and my wings... he keeps stroking that spot at the very bottom of them, just as sensitive as my waist—around the same area too. And oh, how I glow as my climax tears through me with a strangled cry, my hips jolting with the aftershock of it, and the light in the clearing becomes so bright that I might burst with the energy of it. And when the shuddering stops, when the glow begins to dim...

Tamlin moves to lie beside me and I clutch at him, wanting to hold him, be _close_ to him. But even despite the fact that I can feel him, hard and ready against my hip, I cannot stop the way the willow calls to me. "Tamlin," I whisper one final time, breathless and sleep-driven as the world begins to blur.

Tamlin utters a curse. "Aurora?"

My answering response is no more than a hum as my eyes close.

Sleep. I want to sleep. No better place than the willow; no better place than with Tamlin, with my head heavy on his chest as he pulls me to him, with the male I know and love.

And as much as I try to keep my eyes open, there is no way of me stopping them from doing so.

Beside me, Tamlin sighs, and I feel him relax into the grass as the smell of spring rain and new grass meets my nose. "The willow's singing puts me to sleep, too."

And despite the fact that I can feel myself drifting off, the feeling of his fingers in my hair as he strokes it gently back sends tingles down my body with ease. I'm conscious enough to let out a murmur of content; to curl into him, nestled comfortably beside him. Warm and content and sated—perfectly sated, perfectly happy, with my mate beside me.

"Sleep, Aurora," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple as his fingers find my waist.

Yes—sleep. I will never sleep as well as I will at this willow; I will never have a peaceful sleep like this again. Tamlin will be there when I wake up and we will be happy; we will be happier if I sleep under this willow.

And after, right before the world fades away and leaves only the lingering ghost of Tamlin's hands around my waist, I wonder if something so perfect and wonderful can be real at all.


	52. Aurora

When I wake up next, I'm alone.

Tamlin must have tucked me into bed at the townhouse long ago, because the sheets around me are comfortably thick and scratchy in a way that reminds me of home as I sit up in bed. I search outwards with my hearing, hoping to hear him scratching away in the study, but—no. He's long gone.

And as I remember what we just did, part of me is grateful for it.

Heat coats my cheeks as I rub sleep from my eyes. Was it a dream, or did it really happen? I have never had a dream like it—never had a dream so vivid, so pleasant. More than pleasant, certainly. And yet...

I had fallen sleep and left him to—oh. Oh _Mother._

My face is on fire as I climb out of bed and make my way into the bathroom attached to my rooms, intent on running a bath. I turn the faucet, adjusting it to my preferred temperature—a temperature so warm that Tamlin had once hissed at the feel of it and had called me mad—and then set out some towels for afterwards.

And when I strip to get _into_ the bath...

There is one item of clothing missing.

I'm not sure my face can be redder as I remember how Tamlin had shred my underwear with a single swipe of one impatient, deadly claw. The knowledge that he could end me that way; the knowledge that those claws could reach out and harm me if he wished, the knowledge that there is such _power_ behind him, such raw lust... the idea that he could tear me apart and yet chooses _not_ to...

It does things to me that I will never admit to. Not to anyone other than Tamlin, of course.

I bury myself in the bubbles of the bath, an attempt to get rid of my embarrassment, but even as I wipe my face breathlessly with the flannel I set aside, my attempt is feeble. I know that I have to talk to _somebody_ about this. And that somebody...

Who else to go to but Cora?

With my hair slightly damp, I make my way over to the trunk at the bed to choose my dress for the day. Somehow, Tamlin has magicked it so that these trunks connect in some strange portal; whichever dresses are at the palace are here at the townhouse, too. Sometimes his power amazes me; the small things he can do with an effortless wave of his hand are astounding. Papa doesn't use powers like these very much, though I'm not sure why.

Regardless, I want something different today—something blue. Blue is a colour I have always wanted to wear but always saved for a special occasion. I used to match my dresses to the colours of the Dawn court: purples, pinks, beiges, sometimes—but rarely—oranges. But the sky above the Spring Court is the same shade of blue, and that is enough for me.

As if calling to me, I spot a beautiful sky blue gown at the bottom of the trunk.

For a moment, I thank Tamlin's mother for having the same modest style as I. After what I did with Tamlin, the last thing I could bare is for my body to be on full show. The dress' neckline dives down into a low V and yet it remains modest, which is exactly the neckline I like. With my shoulders covered, the sleeves of the dress slightly puffy and sheer, I'll be protected against the Spring chill, too. The tulle that lines the dress' skirt is just the right amount for the Spring temperature.

As I stare at myself in the mirror, I wonder just what type of person Viviane Oldthorne was. Tamlin doesn't often speak of her, but from the painting he hung of her in the landing of the palace, I can tell he has a lot of love for her. She seems to have had a wonderful taste in dresses, at least, but some of them speak of differing stories—of a free female, of a guarded female, and then finally of a tired female.

I wonder if it was the Spring Court that did that to her, or whether it was Tamlin's father. I hope it was neither of those things.

I shake my head, trying to put the thoughts out of my mind. I style my hair once it's dry, pin it back from my head with pearl clips, and in no time I am leaving the house and locking the door behind me. I keep my head down as I walk through the streets as if everyone around me _knows_ what happened, as if everyone around me will laugh at me for my embarrassment. I can't reach Cora's home fast enough. I don't even bother to knock; I just lift the mat, grab the key—honestly, she's too predictable—and let myself in. And I do not even _bother_ to listen out as I make my way upstairs and—

And witness a sight that I am certainly not meant to see. A flash of brown skin, blonde hair, Morrigan's unmistakable red lingerie thrown across the other end of the room—

I scream, the key clattering to the floor as I reach up to cover my eyes.

Cora screams, too, only hers is lower, far less shrill than mine. "Aurora!"

"Cora!" I squeak, backing up towards the stairs.

"Mother above," I hear Morrigan groan, her voice muffled—probably from covers or a pillow or _whatever_ I hear Cora throw at her, presumably to cover her up _._ I merely squeak in discomfort.

"Aurora," Cora says, breathless, "why are you here?" 

"I came to gossip!" I squeak in response, my hands unmoving from my face. "I'll leave, I'll—"

"Gossip?" I hear Mor curiously ask—and then I hear Cora mutter in exasperation. From the shifting of the covers, Mor sits up. "What gossip?"

But I'm just silent. I'm not even sure how to explain or how to word such information or—or how to _speak_ properly after seeing something I'm definitely not supposed to—

"From the lack of response, it _must_ be good," I hear Mor grin.

"Tamlinmademecome," I squeak out in one long word.

Cora chokes.

Mor's laugh is lyrical; I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a beautiful sound. "Well, that's certainly forward."

"What else am I supposed to say?" I near whimper. "Mother above, I'm going to go so you two can—can get back to—to whatever you were, ah, doing—"

Mor yawns, and I hear her feet touch the creaky wooden floors. "No. We were just finished."

"Oh, we _were?_ " Cora sarcastically asks.

"Your friend just had her first time," Mor chides, and from the sound of it, she pushes Cora away teasingly—or _something_ like that. "This requires a solid gossip session and a cup of tea."

My face couldn't be redder as I say, "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Mor asks.

I press my lips together. "I fell asleep."

Silence, and then—Mor laughs again. Louder this time. "Oh, if I didn't have reason enough to support Feyre leaving _before—_ "

"It's not that!" I squeak. "He—he's _fine_ in bed. Well. Not bed. I—he took me to a willow and it—it sang lullabies—"

Cora mutters, "Males. Senseless."

Mor shifts and stands; I can tell from the sound of her movement in the room. She paces about in front of me, presumably grabbing articles of clothing strewn across the bedroom's furniture, but even as I hear Cora follow suit I don't move my hands from my eyes. I'm quite sure the image of the two of them, limb-locked and sensual, will never, ever leave my head. No matter how hard I try.

"Please tell me when I can move my hands," I squeak.

Mor lets out a soft laugh. "You can move them now."

When I slowly, _slowly_ move my hands away, Mor is smiling at me—and, thankfully, the two of them are fully clothed, if not a bit dishevelled. Mor wears a red pants-and-jacket combo, accompanying it with what looks to be one of Cora's—male in fashion—shirts underneath it. It's a very forward look, one I certainly haven't seen anybody else wearing before, and I can't help but wonder just what sort of style Rhysand's court has for her to wear something like _this._

"Like what you see, Aurora?" Mor teases.

I let out a sound that is between a mix of a growl and a hum of displeasure. "Don't tease me right now. I'm _stressed_."

Mor grins at me, sitting back on the end of the bed. Cora, perched on the edge of it, stands. She's garbed in a loose white shirt very much like Mor's own, as well as simple male breeches—brown, the colour favoured by many of the Spring court sentries.

"Please tell me," Cora begins, putting a hand on my shoulder, "that it wasn't when you were drunk."

I wrinkle my nose. "He wouldn't do that."

Cora releases a breath. "Good. Okay. That's that out of the way—"

"Are you going to be using protection?" Mor asks.

I look back at her, slowly tilting my head. "Protection?"

Mor gapes at me, and then—

To my surprise, she reaches around to the top of the bed and throws a pillow at Cora. It falls to the floor with a soft thud, and Cora merely blinks at her as Mor asks with outrage, "You didn't tell her anything about contraceptives?"

Cora raises her hands, exclaiming, "Why is that _my_ job?"

Mor gapes at her. "She has two males for parents, Cora!"

Cora pauses, and then— "Oh," she mumbles. "I guess you're right."

Mor shakes her head, raising her hands in exasperation. I glance between the two of them as I take a step backwards, towards the stairs—

"It's—it's really no big deal," I insist. I'd wanted to gossip, but... this is embarrassing, really, and I don't know Mor that well, and if Cora's busy—

Mor sighs, standing, and makes to tie her hair behind her head with a band wrapped around her wrist. "We need to go into town."

Cora groans. "What? No. No way. I'm sick of being _around_ people."

Mor raises her brows pointedly at her. "If we don't teach your friend about contraceptive brews, Cora, then all you will be _surrounded_ by at the end of a specific twelve month period are people. Little people. Tiny ones with golden hair. Do you want that?"

Cora swallows. Her silence is answer enough. 

"And," Mor says, looking back at me, "if you're going to be sexually active, we might as well get you some nice lingerie."

I blink at her. "Lingerie?"

She closes her eyes, lowering her arms as she finishes with her ponytail. "Cauldron help me. Did your fathers teach you nothing about sex?"

"Mor," Cora growls. I know what that means— _watch your tone._

I press my lips together, lowering my gaze. "They didn't really... have the time. Not with everything."

Everything meaning an endless list of complications. An endless list of things that were far more important.

Mor's face shifts as I look back up at her, and for a moment, I see realisation flash on her face. She offers me a small, weak smile of sympathy—the kind that those who gaze upon my scarred wings mostly give me—as she steps forward.

"Come," she says, softer now. "I happen to know everything you need to know about this particular topic, so feel free to ask me. No judgement here, I promise. And Cora," she says, glancing back at her lover—girlfriend?—with a look of teasing indifference, "we do _not_ need to do this with you, but it would be wonderful if you _did_ decide to stop moping and accompany me."

"Fine," Cora groans, "but don't expect me to stop and chat to anyone."

Mor snickers.

"I'll wait downstairs," I say somewhat hurriedly, flashing them a small smile, and then I am disappearing down the stairs before either of them can say anything to have me do otherwise.

Mor and Cora freshen up before they join me, looking far less dishevelled. It's somewhat awkward as we leave Cora's home and make our way into town, but soon enough, we settle into an easy enough bout of conversation—but Cora is hungry, she moans, and and so we waste no time in stopping at a tearoom for a bite to eat. It's not often that my best friend gets in a mood like this, but when she does...

It's in everyone's best interest to give her what she wants. Food is easy enough.

“So,” Mor says only as we sit down at a pretty ornate table outside the shop, “tell me what happened.”

Cora shakes her head. My cheeks burn bright as I begin, “We went to the willow, and he said... he said he wanted to make new memories with me. It was so sweet and so perfect and—ugh!" I clench my fists at the memory, a smile slipping onto my face. "And then he showed me his true form—his High Lord form. And we..." I lower my gaze in embarrassment, "glowed together."

When I look back up at Mor, her brows are raised. She nods as if to say _go on._

”And...” I suck in a breath. “He, um...” My cheeks heat up all the more as I try to think of what to say. “He—“

”Did he use his mouth?” Mor smirks.

My eyes widen as I look back at her, but I can’t stop the smile slipping onto my face right after. Mor grins at me.

”I see,” she hums in amusement. We momentarily pause for the serving faerie to take our orders, and then— “Go on.”

"He..." I press my lips together. "He took me back to the townhouse after I fell asleep, I assume. Because he wasn't there when I woke up."

Mor rolls her eyes. "Ugh," she groans, "males."

I pale with dread. "You think he's mad at me?"

"With Tamlin, who knows?"

I press my lips together, averting my gaze, but I look back at Mor when I hear her sigh.

"Don't worry about it," Mor says. "If what Cora says is true, you couldn't do anything that would make him give up on you entirely. Least of all falling asleep at a willow that literally sings lullabies."

I lower my gaze. "I suppose." And then— "Is it ridiculous that I miss him even now?"

Cora buries her head in her hands. "You're so smitten with him it's _disgusting._ "

I shove her playfully. "You don't get to tease me after what I saw of you two today!"

Mor presses her lips together in order to hide her laugh, and since she does it quite successfully, she brings her cup of tea to her lips to mask it. Cora merely glowers at me, shifting in her seat.

After lunch, after the three of us exchange gossip that I hope absolutely _nobody_ around us hears, we get the ingredients for a contraceptive brew from an alchemy shop in which the female within it stares at me for a _very_ long time. And... dare I say it, we buy some nice lingerie. I hadn't known there were things so lacy and yet so modest; onesies that make me feel comfortable, even, when wearing them—

I pay for them with _my_ money, too, despite how the townspeople insist that they'll put it on Tamlin's tab—just as he had instructed them to. I want him to know nothing of the things I bought here; I want him to know nothing so that he cannot _tease_ me about it.

"The longer you take to drink it after, the less effective it is," Mor tells me as we walk through town, "so make sure you take it—or brew it—soon after. Better to have one ready and waiting, really."

Cora raises her brows at Mor. "You really used to schedule your sexscapades in like that?"

Mor glares at her. "With the rate you're going, I'll be doing it again soon. Just you wait and see, Cora Emberglade."

I hear Cora growl as she pulls Mor closer, and I hear Mor's lyrical laugh as she _lets_ herself be tugged towards my friend. But there's something in the window of the weapons shop that draws my attention; something that calls to me, glowing and beautiful and bright—

I come to a stop in the window as Mor and Cora keep walking, and I press my fingers gently against the glass. My head tilts. The sword seems to glow with light as if it were absorbing my very own, and of course, the first thing I am reminded of is the way Tamlin had glowed for me under that willow—how we had both glowed together, how we had come together as one. Its blade is engraved with gold swirls and leaves while the hilt seems to be made of pure gold itself, and I'm sure it would fetch a pretty price indeed. I still have yet to buy Tamlin his fifth present—one simply isn't enough. One has _never_ been enough. I like to shower my friends with presents at this time of year; it's rare that I spend my money on anything else. And before...

I hadn't exactly been spending money Under the Mountain. And my father hadn't stopped putting it in my bank for when the time came that I might need it.

Mor and Cora only realise I'm not with them a few seconds later. It's once they spot me, unmoving, that they pace back to me, and when their eyes follow mine in the glass of the shop's display—

"You want _that_?" Mor asks in vague disbelief, looking across at me.

"Not for me," I answer somewhat quickly, glancing across at her and then back to the sword. "A gift for Tamlin."

Mor rolls her eyes. “Isn't everything you've bought today a gift for Tamlin?”

I suppose she's right. The lacy white one-piece, the frilly two-pieces; Mother above, even the stockings...

I shoot her a teasing glare. "He buys me things and yet he is so difficult to buy for. This might be nice."

Cora nods, wrapping an arm around Mor. "I say get it. Heavens, if I could afford it, I'd get it for myself."

I grin across at Cora, making a mental note to buy her a deadly set of knives similar to this blade itself before Solstice. "Do you two mind if we stop to get it?"

Cora shakes her head, and Mor smiles. The blonde responds, "He certainly won't be able to be mad at you _now._ "

And, as much as I know she's joking, I know she's right. I enter the shop with a friendly smile, and in no time I am leaving it with the promise from the shopkeep that the present will be delivered to the townhouse at the earliest convenience.

We spend the rest of the day browsing shops, chatting nonsense, and it all seems perfectly _casual_ despite our mixed allegiances, despite what one might think might draw us apart. Cora and Mor look perfect together, I realise, and Cora very much cares for her. She's always reaching out to touch her gently, to reassure herself that she's near. I'm happy for them.

I make a mental note to invite Morrigan to any celebrations Tamlin and I might have for the Solstice. Whether Mor will actually attend is uncertain, and whether Tamlin will be happy about it even more so... but we are mates, and I am certain that he will be able to handle her presence for me. For Cora.

It's unlikely that they'll even speak to one another, regardless. I hope.

Eventually the afternoon winds to a close, and I can sense how Cora wants to drag her lover back to their apartment to do Mother knows what. I big them goodbye with a smile, but there is one thing that is bugging me—one thing I _have_ to say as I turn back to face the couple—

“Mor, I...” I press my lips together. lowering my gaze before I continue, “I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being so kind to me even despite... despite everything. You have no idea how much it means to me to have another friend.” Because while I wouldn't exactly trust her with my deepest secrets, I trust that I could approach her for help if I needed to. And... despite how teasing she has been, I'm grateful for her aid today.

Two out of however many in the Night Court are proving to be kinder than I anticipated. It gives me hope for the rest of them.

Mor sighs. "I won't pretend that I like your mate, Aurora. But if you think I'm going to let two males come between our friendship, no matter how much wrong Tamlin might have done," she shakes her head, "you're mistaken."

I press my lips together, lowering my gaze briefly. "You're not even the slightest bit upset with me?"

Mor blinks at me. "For loving your mate? No. I do pity you a little."

Cora elbows Mor in the side, and she rolls her eyes as Cora says, " _Mor."_

My lips press together. "I suppose there are worse things to feel about me."

Mor nods. "And if he ever puts a hand on you or locks you up like he did my cousin's mate, I _will_ sever his head from his body entirely."

I grimace. "You and a long list of other people, apparently."

Mor nods, her arm linking with Cora's. "Good."

When we say goodbye this time, it's final. And when I make my way back to the palace this time, I fly.


	53. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I didn't get an update in yesterday - this week has been really hard. But I have four days off now, so I'll try my hardest to get another update out tomorrow!

My smile falters only slightly upon my return to the palace.

I am accosted by servants, a trio of faeries in Spring court garb—faeries who demand that I try on the new dresses Tamlin had commissioned for me, dresses I wasn't even aware he had made for me. They usher me away from Tamlin's study, although I am close enough to hear Lucien's voice within, and they whisk me away to my bedroom where they force me to try on dress after dress. And yet despite the fact that I would typically never frown at new clothes, I am tired—tired from a day spent shopping for articles of clothing already. And the excessive amount of them _is_ a little irksome.

"Which one do you want to wear now?" One of the servants asks me as she twirls me around gently. She seems even more excited than I do at the prospect of such finery, her plump cheeks rosy with something akin to shyness. "Might I suggest the red? It would do wonders for your skin, Lady."

I smile softly at her in the reflection of the mirror. Despite my irritation, irritation which I am masking quite well, I respond, "I can wear the red, I suppose."

One more dress. _One_ more dress. One.

She beams, her bluish wings fluttering—buzzing—as she claps her hands. "Wonderful! The red it is. Oh, the yellow looked lovely on you, too—"

I hate the yellow, but I don't tell her that. Not when her friends giggle in agreement, not when they delve into the trunk at the end of my bed once more, not when they pull out the velvet fabric of the red dress they mention, with its wispy sleeves and flowing skirt and—

And when it is on, I'm surprised to find that it doesn't look too bad at all.

I blink at my reflection in the mirror, my golden curls trailing past my shoulders like a lion's mane. The dress is beautiful and elegant all at once: a high neckline cuts straight across my shoulders, leading to a sheer, billowing sleeve beyond, while the velvet fabric of the dress lines my arms tight under it. And the rest of the dress—gentle, flowing, comfortable. It's not tight, not in the places that make it uncomfortable; it fits perfectly, tastefully.

I wonder if a dress like this had been Tamlin's idea or if it had been the dress maker's. Either way...

I am smoothing down the skirts when the servant asks me, "What do you think, Lady?"

With a tilt of my head, I respond, "It's not bad at all."

The faerie smiles. "I say try on the blue next. I _love_ blue."

The faerie next to her frowns at her friend, golden-haired and round-faced. "No, the pink!"

The blue faerie scowls across at the other servant, her plump face scrunching up in distaste. "Blue!"

I close my eyes, exasperated, before I open them and turn to face the faeries. "Actually," I respond, my smile terse, "I think I'll take a break for now. Thank you, though, for your time."

The silence that follows as they stare at me, wide eyed, is unusual.

The faeries glance between themselves nervously. "Not one more dress?"

I smile kindly. "Not at the moment. I must see my mate; I want to thank him for these gifts." That's not the reason I want to see him, not really; not after yesterday, after not seeing him all day—

The blue faerie's wings flutter nervously. "But—"

I don't mean to seem rude when I begin to walk away, but I simply do not have the patience to continue being so kind. Perhaps I have always been like this; perhaps my lack of patience comes with all the terror I have seen as of late. Regardless, I do not have the time for any more of this, and—

"But you can't!" One of the faeries cries.

Slowly, suspiciously, I come to a stop. I turn to stare at her. "Why?"

She presses her lips together; glances back to her colleagues...

And instantly, I know something is wrong.

I narrow my eyes. If Tamlin is hiding something from me; if he has another _female_ in there with him—

I cannot stop the inexplicable rage in my eyes at the thought.

Before I know it, I am spinning on my heel and storming from my bedroom in a furious rage. Not even the faeries as they call my name—my title—can stop me from leaving. Perhaps it's the mating bond fuelling me with a paranoid female kind of fury, but my instincts have never done me wrong before. And as I make my way down the steps, as I barely avoid tripping on my skirts and have to hold them up to stop myself from going flying in the _worst_ kind of way, I stop hearing the feet of the faeries following me. Tamlin's study isn't too far away—right next to the living room, actually, in the main hall of the ground floor—

"Lady," I hear someone call after me in the hallway, but I don't turn to look at them. Not when I throw the doors to Tamlin's study open a second later, not when—

Not when standing before his desk is a High Priestess.

My face curls into an expression of anger as I stare at her, and then— _venom_ as my gaze averts to my mate. I do not even bother to look in Lucien's direction, not when he turns to face me with wide eyes and glances between Tamlin and myself; not when memories of Feyre and Tamlin's arguments are likely coming back to him—

Because that is what this is going to be. An argument. I know that even before I decide I've had enough; even before I spin on my heel, even before I stalk away from his study, even before I leave the door to it wide open.

I hear Tamlin calling my name; hear him order Lucien to stay in the room; I hear his footsteps as he makes to follow me. But I don't turn to face him, not until he's saying my name _again_ in the middle of the hall, in the foyer just like last time—

"Aurora," Tamlin says one final time, and—

And before I know it I am spinning to face him, anger filling my entire system—and the brown hues of my eyes—as my fists clench. "When were you going to tell me?" I demand. "When she was already moved in? When it's too late for me to do anything about it?"

Tamlin's gaze on me turns serious. "Can we not do this in the middle of the hall?"

I sneer at him. "We did it here last time. Why not here again?"

Tamlin takes a step closer as he responds, "Because you are Lady of this court, and my people have seen enough arguments between one Lady and its Lord for a lifetime. So please," he says, his voice softer—and yet hardly more patient—as he gestures towards a door to his side, "may we talk in private?"

His question sounds more like an order. But as I press my lips together, as I stare at him with poison in my eyes, I know that he's right.

He opens the door to my left with one hand, leaves it open to allow me to enter through it, and he wastes no time in closing it behind me once I am inside.

The room inside hosts a desk and little else; a scholar's room, perhaps, with walls lined with bookcases that are mostly empty. A private escape. A singular window lines the wall to my left, and while the room is quite dull itself—the same deep wooden fixtures as the rest of the house—it makes, for now, a good enough place to talk. Although the heavy wooden door certainly won't do enough to block the noise of anger that I am undoubtedly headed to make in regards to this new arrival—

"I only just found out today," Tamlin tells me softly, still stood in front of the closed door.

I tilt my head up in defiance.

He shakes his head, moves past me to lean against the deep wood of the desk, and leans his hands against the surface of it as he continues, "She arrived this morning."

"And?"

My mate's gaze darkens. "I would've been there when you woke up if she hadn't come. I had to call Lucien upon her arrival; had to—"

"Send her away," I demand, not wanting to hear any more of it. "I don't want her here."

Tamlin grumbles in response. "No."

I blink at him, outrage evident on my features. "No?"

"I can't."

My answering question is flat with outrage as I growl it through my teeth: "Why."

He presses his lips together, averts his gaze to the window to my left, but he doesn't answer me.

"Send her away," I repeat. My fists don't unclench—my head doesn't lower in kindness, in softness, in understanding. "Please, Tamlin. _Please."_

This is _my_ place. Mine. And I will not have a High Priestess here to ruin my sanctuary.

Tamlin sucks in a breath as he responds, "My... the people need a High Priestess. There are more of them arriving tomorrow—more so that I might pick who remains."

I blink at him. "You would pick your people over me?"

Tamlin looks up at me, and...

And there is this look in his eye that I cannot read.

It's not entirely hurt—no. It's... he's _judging_ me, I realise, and my lips curl up in outrage at the realisation. Is my desire to feel safe so difficult for males to understand? Is it so difficult for them to understand that after everything, after so much pain, I might want a little bit of peace?

Perhaps it is. Perhaps for a mate who has only ever known war, perhaps for a father who denies his emotions until they go away, perhaps for _another_ father who fights so that he doesn't have to feel, it's easy to pretend to be fine. But I _cannot—_ not when the emotions are so overwhelming, not when I am terrified at every turn—

"I thought you understood," Tamlin says quietly. "I thought you understood my... the fact that I have people to..."

He doesn't need to finish his sentence for me to know what he means—and truthfully, I don't think he's even _able_ to find the words. I think, although I can't see it on his face—his face full of expressions that aren't there, full of hidden truths and festering secrets—that I have hurt him more than I can show.

I flex my fingers as my heart races. In a way, I _do_ understand—I understand his need to protect, to save, to do all the things he could not do for his people long ago, to do all the things his father likely failed to do. But for that to come at the expense of my own happiness...

"I do understand," I respond slowly, shakily, "but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt me. It hurts. It hurts already."

Tamlin closes his eyes, but he says nothing. Nothing for the longest time—

"I killed her, Aurora," he says quietly.

The room is still. The room would be still even if there were more than a few items of forgotten furniture in here. The room would be still if it were filled with a thousand people over two.

"What?" I whisper.

"I killed her," he repeats. "I killed Rowena. For you. She—she _enraged_ me, and they know of it. I mean none of it—none of that nonsense about my people needing a High Priestess. Not when it comes to you." Tamlin swallows, his eyes pleading as he gazes upon me. "And this is my punishment—the Grand Priestess showing up here _telling_ me what is going to happen, that she will bring a flock of her trainees here tomorrow, is my punishment."

I stop hearing him. Certainly, I should feel terrible; certainly, I should feel that it's my fault, that she didn't deserve to die, that Rowena deserved to live—

"What?" I repeat. I'm hardly able to say anything more; my brain can hardly comprehend his words—

"Aurora?"

Tamlin stands from where he leans against the desk. His fingers move to find my own, barely ghosting against the side of my hand, and it brings me back just enough.

I swallow thickly. "I want to—"

I want to what?

What is terrifying me more—the fact that I should feel something but can't, or the fact that there are a flock of High Priestesses arriving tomorrow?

"Breathe," he reminds me, his fingers ghosting against my cheek. "It's alright."

"Why don't I feel anything?" I near-whimper.

If the way my mate presses his lips together says anything about how he's feeling, Tamlin doesn't know what to say. And with that far away look in his eye, with the way he looks like there are a thousand things he wants to say and none at all that he can speak—

I don't blame him.

I hardly know how to feel, let alone what to say.

"I don't know," he eventually whispers in response—quietly, solemnly. "I don't know."

I think I could stay standing there forever, but eventually, I motivate myself to move. Slowly, I lean against the desk behind him—the place he had moved from only moments before. He moves to lean next to me, the sleeve of his green doublet only just brushing against my own red one—

"What did you..." I swallow. "How did you—"

He shakes his head, lowering his gaze. "You don't want to know how."

"Tell me."

"No, Aurora."

"Tell me," I demand, shoving him gently—definitely not hard enough to hurt, to damage, to seem aggressive.

Tamlin frowns. "I—"

"You killed her. The least you can do is tell me how."

He stares at me; stares at me for the longest of moments, and—

"With these," he says, lifting a hand a moment later—a hand which claws elongate from.

I stare at them as my lips part. A slow, shaky breath slips from my lips at the sight of them. I've never taken them in before—just how deadly they are, just how damaging they can be. And with Tamlin's combined strength...

But that exhale of breath isn't from fear. I've never been afraid of his claws before, and I'm certainly not now. It's something else: something deeper, something I don't entirely understand, something—

"What's that look in your eye?" Tamlin asks. His voice is low, suggestive, bordering on curious—

I don't move my gaze from his claws. "I don't know."

Quietly, perhaps a little slyly, Tamlin asks, "Are you sure?"

The sight of his claws...

He knows what that look in my eyes means. I know he does.

It's lust.

It's lust and it's wrong— _wrong_ that I should crave him _because_ of such a thing. It is entirely out of character for someone who wishes to see the best in people; entirely out of character for somebody who should be disgusted by the fact that he _killed_ somebody _for_ me _with_ those. But...

But Tamlin is the first person who has _ever_ done anything just because he cares for me; out of anger that I was mistreated. Ignoring rules, ignoring tradition, ignoring the consequences—

For _me._

And when I look up at him, when I glance between his lips, I don't care about Rowena. I still care about how _wrong_ it feels, how ugly it makes me feel inside, but...

There is a larger part of me that is glad to feel anything. And if that is lust, then I'll take it.

I press my lips to his—tentatively at first.

And then we lose control entirely.

Tamlin grips my waist, his claws still long and sharp, but I don't shy away--I beg for them to leave bruises, beg for him to mark me as his. I scramble for the buttons at his doublet as he growls in approval of our kiss, and when his tongue slips out to meet mine, when his other hand finds my hair and grabs a fistful of it without a care for being gentle, for being soft, I don't mind. The way he grabs my hair—it doesn't bring back horrible memories of Rowena but of _lust,_ of love, of the need for him to devour me whole—

He tilts my head to the side and presses his lips to my neck in one rough movement, and I gasp at how good it feels to have him be in control. I can feel the points of his fangs free against my skin, dangerous and taunting in a way he hasn't let slip before, and I whine as he trails his tongue down the length of my neck. His touch on me is reminiscent of a beast stalking a doe—menacing, savage, with the ability to kill—

And yet he doesn't. All that power, all that risk, held in the points of two fangs at my neck...

Tamlin prompts heavy breaths of pleasure from me as his hand finds my breasts, as another tightens at my waist, as he thumbs at me through the sheer material of this red dress—all before he tilts my head up to look at him with one rough tug on my hair.

"I wanted to see you in this dress," he growls at me, his eyes feral, wild, "but I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to see it so soon."

"I bet it would be more rewarding for you to see it off," I manage breathe.

Tamlin doesn't respond. Not with words, at least. No—instead, he bites down on my collarbone hard.

Hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make me bleed, hard enough for me to gasp at the pain of it—

"You," he snarls against me, "are mine. _Mine."_

 _Yes,_ I want to breathe, but I'm hardly able—not when he looks up at me and it is _my_ blood coating his lips, not when he looks like he could fuck me and devour me whole right on this very desk here, not when all I can do is stare at him, breathless, completely _overwhelmed_ by the sensations his manhandling is prompting through my body.

Tamlin growls as he lowers himself to lick at the blood again. I let out a shaky breath as I tilt my head back, and he begins trailing a bloody pattern of kisses up my neck, at my ear—

Until the door opens. And the person on the other side gasps at our presence.

Tamlin turns with a snarl—a snarl that tells me he isn't entirely himself, not when he's overwhelmed by lust. It takes everything in me to fumble for his sleeve, to tug him away, to resist tugging him back to me and kissing him—

"S-sorry," the servant stutters, eyes wide as he stares at his High Lord. "I knocked. Lucien—he asked me to—to—"

Tamlin growls.

In this moment, he is nothing but the mating bond personified—a snarling beast dead-set on claiming his mate.

"Tamlin," I manage to breathe, my fingers tugging at his sleeve.

It takes a moment, but—slowly, Tamlin starts to relax. First the tension slips from his shoulders, then the crackle of anger like static in the room begins to fade, then he looses a breath—

"He will be there in a minute," I tell the servant, my voice shaky as I take a step closer to my mate.

The servant glances at the bite mark at my collarbone, hesitating, lingering—but he wastes no time in nodding a moment after, nor in closing the door gently shut behind him.

And when the servant is gone, the tension slips from my mate's shoulders completely. But he doesn't look at me: there is something weighing on him now, something I don't entirely understand—

My fists wrap gently around his wrists as I stare up at him. "Tamlin."

 _Look at me,_ I silently say.

My mate understands. And when he looks up at me—

"What will happen tomorrow?" I ask quietly.

Tamlin presses his lips together. "I don't know," he responds. "I assume she will make me choose, or pick for me, or perhaps recommend girls to me. I don't know."

I clench my jaw. "You are the High Lord. Burn her alive if she dares tell you what to do in your own court."

A flash of amusement in his green orbs, and—he raises his brows. "I haven't heard you talk like that before."

I press my lips together in a muted sort of irritation—not at him, but at his teasing. "I am not going to be kind about people trying to verge on our safe space. This... I need this. _You_ need this," I insist, my gaze on him softening. "This palace is our home as much as the townhouse. And if anybody tries to ruin that, I will flay them myself."

Slowly, eventually, Tamlin smiles in amusement. "I would like to see that."

"No," I answer softly, "you would not."

Because he would never look at me the same.

I know it is in me; that I am capable of doing such things. That I am capable of succumbing to darkness should it beckon me to it. But here and now...

The Spring Court keeps me from falling into despair, into emptiness, and then into a venomous pit at the bottom. It is a venomous pit that might turn me as bitter as my poor mate, if I let it. If I dared to delve into it.

I will not allow anybody to push me any closer to it than I already am. 

Even my attitude now, my lack of patience—it is proof of just how close I have come to it in comparison to a few weeks ago. In comparison to that girl who had prompted Tamlin to open the curtains, who had brought him light.

Tamlin seems to understand what I mean, because for a moment, his gaze darkens on me. He glances over me; at the deep red of this dress, so different to the pastels I usually wear, so womanly and right and yet so _wrong—_

"I want to attend the meeting tomorrow," I tell him.

For a moment, Tamlin doesn't respond—he just keeps staring at the material of my dress. "Alright."

I blink at him. "You're not going to protest?"

Tamlin's smile is remorseful as he gazes upon me. "A few moments ago I might have. But you..."

Tamlin lets out a breath that sounds a lot like a sigh as he moves his hands to cup my cheeks. The claws are still there and yet they do not scare me even still, not even as he closes his eyes and continues, "You are capable of making your own decisions. You are..." He opens his eyes. "You have been through enough to know what you can handle."

I stare up at him, my eyes wide—vulnerable. "Thank you. I..." I swallow, wrapping my arms around him. "I think."

Tamlin closes his eyes as his arms wrap around me, too. "Just promise me you won't do anything that would put you in danger."

I look up at him, confused. "What?"

But Tamlin's gaze on me is pleading—a silent beg for my answer to be the one he hopes for. "Please."

And slowly, eventually, I nod.

Tamlin takes a breath, averting his gaze momentarily before he says, "There will be many of them. The Priestesses."

I rest my head against his chest; against the satin of his doublet. "I know."

For a moment, we merely hold one another. He is warm and comfortable even despite our argument, even despite our agreement—and truthfully, I have long since forgotten about how we had argued with one another now. All I can think of is _her..._

"You should return," I murmur against his lips. I brush my nose against his—soft, loving, gentle—even if I do not want him to leave; even if the last thing I want is for him to be in a room with a High Priestess.

"I know," he murmurs in response.

We stay like that for a few moments more, simply in love— _comfortable—_ before we finally leave the room.

I follow him out into the hall, close the door behind me, and Tamlin presses a kiss to my forehead in a temporary goodbye. He makes me promise to join him later, promise that he'll see me, and I do—because Mother above, I want him close. I want him near. I make to turn away, to wish him good luck, to tell him I'll see him later, and—

And there's one thing left unsaid. One thing I hadn't even realised _needed_ to be said until now.

"Tamlin," I call out.

I turn to face him and he does the same; turns back to me, his keen green eyes finding my own, and—

"I want to give them a show," I tell him. My head tilts up defiantly, proudly; all things I will not let those Priestesses take from me.

And my words are not a request. They are a statement—a raging demand.

My mate seems to understand that, too.

"A show," he responds, as if tasting the words on his tongue. 

Slowly, I nod.

Tamlin's nod is slow and firm, a movement that leaves me confident in his response, before he turns and walks away.

And for better or for worse, I am left alone to stew on just what _give them a show_ means.

And later, I have reason to wonder if the High Priestesses of Prythian know what they are dealing with.

No—not what.

_Who._

I am a female scorned; a female with a lot to lose. A female who has lost too much already. A female with a _mate_ who has lost too much already.

It means I will fight back, and I will fight back hard—harder than whatever they throw at me.

I will come prepared.

And as I browse one of the books on the bookshelf in Tamlin's chambers, _A History of the Spring Court and its Lovely Lands,_ I wonder if Tamlin has picked up this book in the centuries it has likely been sitting here.

Because if he had...

If he had, he would know just what sort of weapon lies within his court--just what sort of weapon can be used against the Priestesses.

And I do not tell Tamlin when I snap the book shut, when I delve into town to meet with Bron and Hart, nor do I tell him when the sentries glance between themselves nervously but give in to my request regardless. Because when Bron and Hart take me to that golden tree, its apples glowing bright; when I see the trickling liquid that trails from its leaves and down its trunk...

I know then that the High Priestesses made a mistake in ever underestimating my mate—in ever thinking that they could control him. That they could control what happens in this court.

Did they think the murder of one of their own could be used to their benefit?

 _Think again,_ I hear a voice in my head sing. I smile at the sound of it as my hands clasp together in front of me—as I pull off the leather gloves on my hands and throw them to the grassy ground below.

No need for finery when something like this lies before me. The tree glows, shimmering, the melodic noise that wafts from it like a chorus of light personified. It pumps with the life of Spring, with the sheer power of the holy truths the voices from within it sing—

"Let's get to work," I say to the males beside me, still smiling at that tree—at its roots.

"Lady," Bron says hesitantly, "are you sure?"

And as I smile across at him, as I realise that this male would follow me into battle if I asked him to, I realise just how easy it is for power to corrupt people—how easy it is to let it get to one's head.

But not me. Not when this is for Spring—for its people.

This is for the safety of myself, of my mate, for the people of Sperover—

"Absolutely," I respond easily.

I look across at Hart; strong, brave, hardened Hart. I watch, waiting, _needing_ to see his response to my answer, knowing very well that whatever he does, Bron will follow—

And when he nods, when I see Bron release a breath out of the corner of his eye, when I see the two of them set aside their doubts to follow _my_ orders—that they trust _me_ above all else... 

I think I like being Lady after all.

I think being Lady might not be as stressful as I once thought it would be.

And I think...

I think, although I refused the bond, I have been Lady for a long time now.

Spring is comfort. Spring is home.

I do not let myself think on what that means for Tamlin and I in the moment—not when I take a step forward, not when I lift my skirts, not when I reach for the jug in the satchel in my side and begin to get to harvest the glimmering juice from the gargantuan tree before us.

Because right now, Spring comes first.

And what better to prove a Priestess' worth than with the golden spirit of Spring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has me fearing the way Hufflepuffs can be way more cunning than Slytherins if they put their minds to it.
> 
> I'm scared of Aurora and what she has planned :)


	54. Tamlin

Aurora Morningsworn lounges on the throne beside me in the skimpiest dress I have ever seen.

A few weeks ago, I never would have imagined that she would do anything like this—not something so wicked, not something so cunning, not when she came off so innocent. But the surprise she has cooked up for the priestesses today is her idea, and she had worn that lacy white dress without hesitation once I had jokingly suggested it in the early light of the morning. And the entirety of the situation—the dress, her attitude, the way she sticks her nose in the air at the sight of our guests—excites me to no end.

It is all a show of power—of a lack of care in all the ways that count.

Because the High Priestesses are a gaggle of blue as they approach us in the throne room.

 _Thesan's daughter,_ they likely whisper. _So innocent. So easily manipulated by Rowena._

Everything about my mate now screams the opposite. She will not let her shame them, not even with her breasts barely covered—not even with the sheer white of her skirts revealing her long, slender legs underneath it. Not even as she kicks a leg over the arm of her throne without a care in the world for what is on show.

I lounge lazily, indifferently, on my throne beside her, despite the fact that the sight of her had driven me so wild this morning that it was impossible to keep my eyes off of her every move. Two thrones—one had been for my father, the other for my mother. Mine is far more grandiose; it might as well be a golden statue of my beast form with a space for a seat in the middle. Aurora's throne, though...

A golden stag. Slender, keen-eyed and watchful. And I think, as I glance across at my mate, that I might at some point have wings fashioned onto it—wings that are splayed and proud, unlike the indifferent wings that Aurora keeps relaxed now.

My long fingers are splayed over the beast's gargantuan paws as my court gathers to watch from the sides of this grandiose hall. The priestesses are proud as they make their way toward the raised dais our thrones sit upon, and I can only imagine how I look to them: the High Lord that crushed one of their own, that sent her body back bloodied and maimed, sat beside the female he killed her for.

 _I would do it again and again,_ I think to myself, watching for any movement from Aurora from the corner of my eye—but there is none. She merely sits beside me and watches them keenly, her fingers relaxed against the curved hooves of her chair as she gazes upon the unholy gaggle of them with a look of boredom.

I watch one of the priestesses, her head tilted upward with defiance, step forward.

"High Lord Tamlin," she greets me, her voice low and cunningly smooth.

And I realise all of a sudden that I know that voice. 

And when the priestess pulls down her hood to reveal her face, to reveal the silver circlet that marks her as the Elder—

Amorie—a friend of my father, long ago. His mistress.

"Amorie," I greet her, my smile that of a predator.

All teeth. It does not meet my eyes. I would like to tear _her_ apart for the pain she caused my mother, just as I had Rowena—

Lucien, stood beside me, shifts. He knows that name—knows the history. Knows that this could get very, very ugly.

Never mind her history with my father... to rush me, to give me such short notice—it's an insult in itself. And thankfully, although Lucien is hardly my official emissary, he had been willing to step into his old role for this—for what is sure to be a satisfying—and important—event.

Now, with the arrival of this female, I wonder if he regrets it.

With a wave of my hand, I say nonchalantly, "You seem to have overlooked my mate."

Amorie blinks at me as she smiles sweetly—mockingly so. "Forgive me. I had no idea the two of you had finally accepted the bond," she responds. She tilts her head, still smiling. "Did I miss the wedding?"

"You know very well that you did not," I respond, irritation clear at the edges of my tone. 

Amorie blinks, and I watch as a petite hand flies up to her chest in a mocking sort of apology. "Forgive me, High Lord, I—"

Aurora's voice cuts through the tension like a knife when she responds simply, "You're forgiven."

Her voice is elegant, proud—and strikingly, almost terrifyingly calm.

Amorie slowly and sharply turns to look at my mate, her gaze deliberate, and—

Aurora continues, "We can't expect such a renowned Priestess to keep up with the ways of the elite—not when she is so busy worshipping our great and holy Mother. We should remember," Aurora continues, her voice sincere—sincere in the most insincere of ways, "that she likely has the understanding of a sheep when it comes to our customs. After all, how can the poor thing know any better?" Aurora leans forward, and— "What _sacrifices_ she makes for us. Forfeiting her most civilised customs."

And when Aurora is finished, Amorie isn't smiling anymore. No—she's gaping at Aurora's insult.

I do not hide my smile of amusement as Aurora continues, sitting back in her chair matter-of-factly, "You may call me Lady."

The room rings silent. Even the onlookers at the sides of the room, the courtiers who have begun to return to the palace, the servants peering in—they're quiet. And if the shock on their faces says anything of their thoughts, they are just as surprised to see this side of my mate as I am.

I'm feeling something other than shock in regards to Aurora, too. And this thing... it certainly isn't bad at all.

Lucien, beside me, clears his throat.

"Now," Aurora continues with a smile, "let's try this." She rests her elbows on the arms of her chair as her hands clasp together in front of her. It is a perfectly patronising stance. " _It is wonderful to meet you, Lady Aurora of Spring._ "

I avert my gaze from my mate to smile at Amorie, amused and lazy and cunning—

And I watch as Amorie is slowly forced to swallow her pride.

It's not easy, of course. I can see the battle in her mind already—can see the way her lips press together in fury, can see the way she _hates_ being spoken down to by a female who is, technically, not at all Lady of this court. And yet she is—and will be.

And Amorie risks my wrath, risks a political fiasco, if she refuses her.

"It is a pleasure, Lady Aurora," she forces herself to say, bowing her head deep.

Aurora is silent for a moment as she watches—waits. Waits for Amorie to raise her gaze to Aurora again.

And when she does, my mate smiles.

"Good," Aurora says, leaning back in her chair. 

And as the room remains quiet even when Aurora is done speaking, I can't help but wonder—

Did she get that cunning from Amarantha, or Rowena?

Even Lucien gapes at her now, his lips parted in surprise as he gazes upon her lacy white form. I wonder briefly what is going through his mind—briefly, because in the next second my gaze is returning to Amorie. And, despite how irritating she is to me, I am glad when she speaks first; glad because after Aurora's show, I truly have no idea what to say.

Amorie's gaze is dark as her gaze turns to me. I wonder if she might ignore my mate for as long as she can; she had done so with my mother, and she had only paid attention to her in order to flaunt the pull that she had on my father. Amorie of Spring... she had been a kind Priestess once. Devout and holy. But now... 

She has long since changed.

And she is the _last_ person I would put at the top of a list to govern over the High Priestess recruits.

Amorie sneers, "Your new palace is certainly... a change."

Her words are a carefully masked insult; she knows how much my mother loved this place. It is a win after being so carefully shamed, and I realise just how well this female knows how to play these courtly games. Suddenly, I feel out of place—out of place between Aurora, who had thought this plan up herself, and this female who is perhaps my father's age now, perhaps only just a little younger. I have never been good with people, with tact, with anything other than ripping out throats with my teeth or using my claws to send a message. And yet—

I shrug. "It is nothing impressive."

I understand indifference, at least. I understand indifference and the role it plays today.

Certainly, my new palace _is_ impressive; with its tall walls which could encompass three levels, with its arched wooden ceiling, with its floor-to-ceiling glass windows and room enough for dancers in the hundreds, it is grandiose indeed—grander, even, than my throne room back at the manor. Its painted green walls are lined with gold roses and vines, thorns and all, and the only gaps between them are the large windows which allow a view out to sea to my left and to the sprawling gardens to my right.

So yes, it is grandiose. But indifference is a sure way to influence the other to believe my power, my wealth... all the things I need her to think I have.

Certainly, I am wealthy; it would be strange for a High Lord _not_ to be. But there is still a lot of healing that Spring needs to do and there is still a lot of wealth I have lost. And as much as I simply do not care for religion, for the Priestesses before me, I know that the people in Sperover do care. And despite the fact that I would rather not have a priestess in my court, despite the fact that my _mate_ would rather not have one here, I _do_ need a High Priestess in _Sperover._ Otherwise... 

Otherwise, my court might be seen as a bad omen; a curse to live in. Otherwise, all my effort in rebuilding will have been for nothing.

And that means playing this game carefully. As carefully as I understand it, of course.

Amorie's smile is terse. "Of course."

I let out a sigh. "I tire of this small talk. I presume you have come in regards to the vacancy in my court?"

Amorie's smile falters somewhat. "Yes, if you must ask. Although we have been discussing whether it is appropriate for one to join your court at all."

I raise my brows at her. "I did not know you were one to deny the common people a connection to the Mother, Amorie."

Amorie tilts her chin up and huffs. "That, High Lord, is the only reason we come here today."

I smile at her—my mother's cunning smile. She bristles at the sight of it. The two of them never got along, not when my mother always suspected her—mostly because she knew how easily distracted my father could be. Perhaps my mother's distaste for Amorie had manifested my father's desire for her—

No. No. It had all been Amorie. I cannot afford to keep giving these priestesses chances; I cannot afford to keep hoping that there is good in them.

And Aurora, the epitome of believing in good, doesn't think we can take that chance either.

"Wonderful," I respond nonchalantly, nodding. "Later today I shall have somebody show you the temple I have made in your Priestess' honour."

Amorie blinks. "Temple?"

I wave a hand as if it is nothing; as if it _didn't_ cost me the earth. Stone imported from Dawn, as pale as the moon— "A private residence and place of worship."

One of the girls in the group behind her, blonde and blue-eyed, gapes at me. "But—but it is customary for a High Priestess to remain in the High Lord's—"

"The temple is fitting enough," Aurora interrupts flatly. Dangerously.

My predatory smile is confirmation of her statement.

Amorie glowers at her, and then her gaze shifts to me. "And your reasoning for this?"

I open my mouth to speak, but it is my mate who speaks first—my mate who has her say as she responds, "When has there ever been a time where a priestess' presence in a High Lord's court did anything other than make things worse?"

Amorie's eyes widen, and for a moment, her lips part in outrage before she actually manages to speak. "You dare insinuate that my girls are anything other than holy?"

Aurora shrugs.

Amorie's shoulders roll as she seethes, "You—you—we have come here today to see whether it is even _worth_ stationing a priestess here, and this is how you treat us?"

Aurora rolls her eyes and averts her gaze as she slumps back in her chair. The people around us shift nervously, murmuring amongst themselves. Lucien, beside me, clears his throat—sends a warning look over to Aurora, one that she does not catch.

And myself... I _wish_ I could show that I care, _wish_ that I could show that I truly give a single shit about Amorie's emotions, but I don't. She is not a guest here; she will not play me in the same way that she played my father. No—as much as Sperover _needs_ whichever High Priestess it ends u having, I simply do not have the care within me to even raise a finger; not even to tilt my head.

Lucien, apparently, has what I do not have.

"The High Lord and Lady have hardly had pleasant experiences with your priestesses," Lucien explains, his hands folding behind his back. "Their history speaks for itself. We both have a lot of work to do," he says, glancing somewhat hesitantly between myself and Amorie, "and there is no point lingering in doing it. Spring needs a priestess, and you have trainees for this very reason."

Amorie tilts her head upward proudly. "And how am I supposed to know that they will be treated right—that they will be," Amorie glares at Aurora before looking back at Lucien, "welcomed?"

Lucien opens his mouth to speak, but it is Aurora who gets there first. It is Aurora who smiles as she responds, "I have an idea, actually."

One beat, two—

Silence.

"In fact," Aurora continues, "we would like to choose who will stay in our court today."

Amorie blinks. The Priestesses behind her start to shuffle, to whisper, to look increasingly excited—but oh, if only they had a clue what Aurora has in store for them. If only they had a clue what she had harvested for them the day before...

Because if they knew just how cunning my mate has proven to be, then they might not look so excited at all.

"What do you mean?" Amorie demands, glancing between the two of us warily. Behind her, the blue-robed priestesses turn to their fellow trainees with eagerness, and they mutter between themselves as Amorie continues, "I still do not see how this will reassure me."

Aurora shrugs. "I have a test in store—if your priestesses are willing, of course."

Amorie blinks at my mate. "A test?"

Aurora nods.

Amorie's eyes narrow as she keeps her gaze on my mate.

I say, "I have never known you to overlook the request of a High Lord, Amorie. You were quite keen to do my father's bidding."

 _Cauldron boil you,_ I think, my fingers tightening on my throne. I hardly stop the claws from slipping out; hardly stop them from revealing how truly angry I really am at the sight of her. _Boil and burn—_

Amorie ignores me as she turns back to Aurora, and she tilts her head up high—proud—as she demands, "What did you have in mind?"

Aurora smiles at her, wicked and cunning—

And then she waves a hand to the guards who stand ready at the double doors at the end of the room.

"Bring it in," she orders.

The heavy doors groan as the sentries pull them open. The vat of steaming liquid is excessive in size, certainly—excessive in wealth, too, for we will not need that much of it today and yet Aurora had harvested it anyway. We are not here to do anything other than impress and terrify these priestesses, not when only the truest will be allowed to join my court—not when they have tormented and underestimated the High Lords of Prythian for far too long. And oh, the contents of that vat...

I can smell it even from here as it is wheeled to a stop before the dais. Sweet, tempting, devastatingly so... 

If any of those priestesses are smart, they'll know what enchanted juice will do to them.

Which means that a minority of the females in this room should _know_ to be afraid.

I see Lucien, out of the corner of my eye, straighten; I see the Priestesses murmur amongst themselves; I see Amorie blink at the vat cluelessly. All of it pales in comparison to the way my mate leans forward, eager to smell it, to bask in the glory of a win that she has not even claimed yet—

"What is this?" Amorie whispers in awe. The golden liquid sparkles and froths in spaces, heat rising from it like steam from a warm bath—

"Juice harvested from the apples of an enchanted tree," Aurora responds nonchalantly.

A gasp rings through the room as Amorie's face turns red—with embarrassment or shame or anger, I can't tell. Aurora clasps her hands together, the sheer white of her sleeves collecting together like a trail of wedding white.

Aurora asks, "Do you know what enchanted juice does?"

Amorie clenches her jaw. "Of course I do."

"Do your girls?" Aurora asks, her smile wicked.

Amorie swallows a lump in her throat, and her answering silence is answer enough.

Aurora looks back at me. "Should we tell them, Lord?"

I chuckle, a shake of my head following. "Let them find out for themselves. Perhaps it will only prove their worth; perhaps it will prove to us who really deserves to take up this position."

And when Aurora looks away from me, when her gaze returns to Amorie, she is smiling. Amorie's expression is that of annoyance; annoyance that she is trying and failing to hide—

Annoyance that stems from the fact that she knows I am right.

Did she expect to out-wit us today?

If so, she was wrong.

Aurora tilts her head as she stands, taking a few steps down—down the steps of the dais and towards the very image of the leader of one of the females that had hurt her so. "You are awfully quiet, Amorie," Aurora observes. "Do you not believe your Priestesses can withstand the test?"

"No," Amorie responds—a little too quickly, too defensively. I wonder if it is partly because of how close Aurora has gotten to her. Indeed, Aurora's wings have begun to flare—proud, majestic, objects of beauty—

Amorie continues, "They are my finest recruits. They can pass any test— _do_ anything."

"Let's see, then." I order, and then I am nodding towards the females behind her.

I wave a hand as I order them to line up, and slowly, hesitantly, they do as I ask. Some of them exchange confused glances with their Elder; Amorie's expression does not falter despite it. She remains where she stands even as the girls behind her form a straight line, even as Aurora makes her way to the vat and a sentry passes her a goblet full of the golden liquid, even as the first girl she makes her way towards pales at the sight of it—

"Drink," Aurora utters to the first.

The first priestess is brown-haired and doe-eyed in the way that makes me feel somewhat guilty. But that is likely exactly the facade she is intent on showing, and Aurora doesn't let it faze her as she brings the liquid to the female's lips and tips it back. There had been no thought between us about giving any of these priestess a chance to prove themselves—not when I had given Ianthe a chance because she had been a friend long ago, and not when Rowena had only gotten close to Aurora because she had let her.

The young priestess hardly has the time to resist the drink once Aurora brings it to her lips; she swallows, chokes, and then—

"What is it that you value the most?" Aurora asks.

The priestess coughs once more; bends over until a golden light spills from her throat, until a ball in her throat glows from within—

"Money," she croaks out. "Money, so that I do not have to live the same life living in shit and filth that I did as a girl."

Her hands fly to her mouth a moment after, her eyes widening in terror—and suddenly, the room is filled with murmurs.

 _Truth-teller,_ they call it. Enchanted juice from a tree that hears whispers in the wind. Because a tree that hears so many secrets has no business prompting anything other than the truth from the mouths of those that drink its golden liquid.

Aurora smiles, her hand moving to rub at the priestess' back in a way that does not at all seem comforting. "And what would you do with your position in Spring?" She asks, her gaze piercing as it finds Amorie's own.

There is fear in the brown-haired priestess' eyes as she looks up at Aurora, her eyes pleading, begging—

"I would use the court to further my own gain," she chokes.

Aurora smiles pointedly at Amorie, and then she moves onto the next.

"Enough," Amorie demands, her eyes wide as her voice wavers. She turns to me in a way that screams of desperation, of nerves that swarm her system— "Tamlin, enough."

Aurora, however, looks back at the brown-haired girl from before. She asks, "Does it hurt?"

"No," the priestess answers, still bent over—whether from shame or the shock of such a potion, I don't know.

The priestesses in the line before Aurora seem to settle a little, the tension slipping from some of their bodies, but—

Not all. And certainly not from Amorie's own. They are stiff as a board, and some even look paler at the sight of their friend—colleague?—bent over; at the sight of Aurora and the goblet she carries—

Aurora looks at Amorie. "What do you have to fear, Amorie?"

 _Everything,_ I want her to respond. _The truth that the High Priestesses have squandered the Mother's name._

When Amorie only stares at Aurora with her lips parted, gaping at her as if she wishes the words could come to her lips, Aurora moves onto the second female.

"Drink," Aurora says, lifting the cup to her lips. And then— "What is it that you value the most?"

"Power," she breathes. "Power and fame."

Their answers are all the same: power, fame, wealth, all the corrupt things I could muster up and more. They all have their own intentions, their own wishes—

Their own ways of watching the world burn.

I watch as Amorie bristles with every response; I watch as she demands that Aurora stop with each and every female she passes on to.

I watch as my mate continues regardless.

The priestesses in training are all too confused and terrified to protest; they merely direct their terrified gazes towards my mate, the one with the power, the one with the liquid that will force them to speak the truth in response to whatever harmless question is asked of them. Some of Amorie's girls even step away—step away and refuse to volunteer themselves, leave the hall entirely, until there is only one left standing.

"What would you do with your position in Spring?" Aurora asks. It is the same question over and over; the same question she repeats each time she asks. The other questions vary, but this one...

This one always stays the same. And no matter what preparation one might muster up inside, no matter how strong they might think their will is, none can resist the magic of the tree's truth.

"The Mother's love," the final one breathes. "To serve the Mother. Please believe me; you must believe me. I only want to bring light, to bring happiness, to spread her holy word—"

Aurora blinks, her brows rising, and slowly she lowers the goblet of golden liquid in her hand. The priestess spews nonsense—nonsense about serving the mother, about her power, and it reminds me of days long passed; days in which I had heard females like her preach in a village that I visited when myself and my brothers were mere boys. It is refreshing; it is relieving— 

"This one," Aurora says, looking back at me. "This one will do."

Amorie shakes her head as she steps forward, flexing her fingers nervously. "She— _no._ She is hardly ready. Nervous, far too soft—"

"She's perfect," Aurora says seriously, and the look that she greets Amorie with is sharp enough to force the priestess to bleed. "Considering that one of your girls even said that she would like to make me _watch_ as she beds my mate, I'd say this girl is the best we will get."

And if I'd thought the room went quiet before, that it had been still before, I was wrong.

Because when I stand, life leaves the room entirely.

Slowly, calmly, I make my way over to the priestess that my mate stands before—the priestess with tear-filled blue eyes, with skin as dark as chocolate, with beautiful braids that trail down her back with pride. I can't help but wonder just what brought her to the Priestesses, just how she kept her innocence around females like this, just how she remains true and pure. And just to be sure—

"Give her another drink," I order.

Aurora blinks at me. "Tamlin?"

I glower at the priestess. "Another."

Aurora hesitates, but—she does what I ask, perhaps only once she realises what I am insinuating. Who are we to know if she is using magic of her own? And with my mate's safety on the line...

I will not take any chances.

Aurora brings the goblet to the priestess' lips again—slowly this time, gently.

The priestess takes another drink. She gasps as that light that glows in her throat glows brighter, lighter—

"Please," she begs. "I tell the truth. My father—he was a devout male, a good male. He raised me the same. I do not care if it is Spring or Summer or Night—"

"It's alright," Aurora reassures her. Her fingers find the priestess' shoulder; soothing, reassuring. "You have proven your worth. You will find no judgement here."

My gaze on her is still steely, still untrusting, but as I turn to look at my mate—

Her gaze is soft. Softer than it has been all day.

I take a deep breath.

"What is your name?" I ask, turning to look at the priestess. If she is to stay, if she is to be Spring's connection to the Mother—

"Lesedi," the priestess breathes. "Lesedi Mora, Lord."

I smile at her, this time not unkindly. My mate's arm brushes against mine; encouraging, reassuring, comforting—

And as I turn to Amorie with my lips tight and my gaze firm, there is nothing that will change our minds now. There is nothing that could convince us to pick _anyone_ else.

"I have made my choice," I tell her. 

Amorie grimaces. "But—"

"I have made my choice," I repeat, and I do not waste any time in making my way back up the steps of the dais and to my throne once the words are said and done.

"Tamlin," Amorie says. She addresses me like a friend and she begs for my attention, for me to change my mind, likely because I have put a stop in whatever plans she had been cooking up—

"Send Lesedi's things to Spring," I order her, a wave of my hand following, "and get out of my palace. All of you."

I do not wait to see her reaction; I merely make to sit. But before I do—

I pause. "Oh—Lesedi?"

I watch as the female's gaze moves away from my mate, who is muttering to her softly, and snaps to me—alert and aware. I take a seat in my throne once more only once the priestess' gaze finds my own.

My fingers flex over the golden paws of the beast that I so often spend my time in as I respond, "Welcome to Spring."

And when Lesedi smiles as me hesitantly, nervously...

I can rest assured in knowing that the welcome my court will give this priestess will be a genuine one.

I can rest assured in knowing that the welcome my _mate_ gives this priestess will be a genuine one—

And I can rest assured in knowing that the Spring Court looks to be in very good hands indeed.

Lesedi Mora—High Priestess of Spring.

Aurora Morningsworn—Lady of Spring.

Tamlin Oldthorne...

I am something. _Something._

And as long as I have my mate and the success of Spring beside me, history can decide the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Court of Nightmares who?
> 
> Anyway... so sorry this chapter is a little late, but we made it! It's like eight minutes past twelve for me so TECHNICALLY this is still Friday for most of you guys. I hope you liked it!


	55. Aurora

Tamlin slams me against the wall and kisses me.

We are teeth, claws and fingers, moans and sighs, and all without a care for softness. I laugh as he tips my head back and kisses my neck, as his fingers pull me closer by my waist, and my fingers find his hair and gently tangle themselves there after. We are a mix of hastiness, of love, surged on by the deepest desire to simply _feel_ one another—to bask in one another's presence.

And truthfully, after our victory, there is nothing more that I want to do. Because finally, _finally,_ we are free—and that means that nothing and everything awaits us around the corner all at once. Our High Priestess had been the last piece of the puzzle; the last piece to fit into the jigsaw that had been Spring's healing.

And as Tamlin growls against my neck, as he licks at the spot where my skin has long since healed from his bite yesterday, I truly do not care for anything but him. But for Spring. But for home and freedom and—

And every day I spend in Spring, I feel a little more free.

Laughter comes freely; sneaking moments like these comes just the same. Tamlin's touch on my skin could set the world aflame as he pushes me against the desk in his study, and as we tease and bite and laugh, we are a breathless mess of tangled hair and swollen lips. And at the end of it, I think...

I think I would be honoured to be Lady of this court.

And if Tamlin asked me again...

I don’t think my answer would be no.

Travelling be damned—I want to spend the rest of my life here, in this court, with my mate. I will see the world eventually, preferably with Tamlin... but for now, I do not want to leave his side. I'm not entirely sure I could bare it, not after what happened, not when I would be surrounded by faces I don't know. And true, I’m nowhere near ready for children—nowhere near ready to accept the mating bond. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be his; that we can’t be—

“You two look to be having fun,” Lucien’s voice sounds from the doorway of the study.

I pull away from Tamlin, his voice a growl as his lips are forced away from my neck, and my gaze—heavy-lidded, full of content—finds Lucien's own. He leans against the doorway with his brows raised, his expression unfazed as if he has seen this countless times before, and... to be truthful, he does not look at all surprised to find us like this. Not with my outfit—not with the way Tamlin had rumbled at the sight of me in it when I had emerged from the bathroom this morning. And with the way I had teased him...

I'm surprised he's been able to control himself this far. 

“Go away, Lucien,” Tamlin growls. His fingers find my waist, his claws long since having freed themselves from the tips of his fingernails—territorial, possessive. I like it.

Lucien’s lips quirk upwards. “Oh? And here I was thinking we ought to celebrate.”

Tamlin growls. "If I have to wait a minute longer—"

"For what?" Lucien interrupts, a huff of laughter following. "To ravish your mate? It seems you've already done that."

"I am _right here,"_ I frown at them.

Tamlin rumbles in agreement, but Lucien merely huffs once more in laughter. He pushes away from the doorway and makes his way into the room, and he wastes no time in making himself comfortable by one of the chairs laid out by the bookcases which line the wall opposite me. Tamlin's study isn't too small, but everything is close enough together to make Lucien's presence here hard to ignore. Bookcases line the walls to my back and to my front; the right looks out to the west, to the sea, and hosts a balcony door leading out, while the wall to my left hosts the entrance itself.

"Aurora," Lucien says as he magicks a pitcher of wine into the air, "you are full of surprises today."

I shrug, sliding out of Tamlin's embrace and off the desk. He rumbles in disapproval, but with Lucien's arrival, the mood has _absolutely_ been ruined—not that I'll ever complain at the Autumn Court heir's presence. Lucien is always good company, and I bet he would even be good company if he were in a terrible mood.

I respond, "Is that a problem?"

Lucien's eye twinkles as he looks at me. "Will you fight me if it is?” He teases. “Force me to drink a truth potion?"

I roll my eyes. "Lucien, I would be terrified to learn every inner thought in your head. This right here is enough."

He laughs properly this time. Tamlin sighs and leans against the desk I moved away from, and Lucien magicks some goblets from midair—one, two, three; pop, pop, pop—and stands as he sets them down on the table.

"Drink?" He asks, eyeing the two of us.

Tamlin opens his mouth to respond, but I get there first when I quip back: "Yes."

Lucien grins at me, no evidence of surprise on his features this time—because this time, the surprise is on Tamlin's features instead. He blinks at me as I take a step towards the table, as Lucien pours a goblet for me and hands it to me, and when I look back at Tamlin and take a sip he raises his brows at me in a way that speaks of muted amusement.

"What?" I demand, glancing between them. "Lucien is right. We should celebrate."

"Should we, now?" Tamlin responds, that amusement now free to curve his lips upwards.

I smile back at him, just as entertained. "Yes."

Tamlin regards me a moment longer: the dress I wear, the slight flush on my cheeks, the way my wings are heavy with relaxation. And then—he stands, his gaze still on me, and slowly paces towards me before he extends a hand towards Lucien.

Lucien shoves a goblet into his hand freely, filled to the brim with a deep red wine.

"To Spring," Lucien says, drawing my attention to him. "To new beginnings. A true new beginning, this time."

Because out of everything that has happened...

A High Priestess solidifies Spring's new beginnings—puts an end to the development. Marks Sperover and the lands around it complete; marks Spring's times of trouble as over.

My answering smile is soft as I raise my goblet. "To Spring."

Tamlin utters the same, lifting his own goblet, and then—

We drink a little too much, in the end.

The alcohol warms all our bodies, loosens my tongue, and I have a feeling that this spilled gossip will be the last of my troubles as the evening moves on. Lucien bursts into barking laughter when Tamlin tells him what happened at the willow, his tongue loosened by the alcohol, and I glower at my mate in displeasure all the while. But despite the information spilled, I cannot truly feel angry at my mate—not when I haven't seen him laugh like this before, not when I haven't seen him let _loose_ like this before. I wonder how often he and Lucien used to spend time like this before; before _everything._

And as I stare at my mate in drunken admiration, my eyes threatening to well up with tears, I am only distracted from my thoughts when Lucien speaks. "Have you become that unsatisfying in bed, Tam?"

Tamlin growls, and he hides his face with his drink as he responds in a mutter, "You know very well that I haven't."

I raise my brows, jealousy striking a pang in my heart as I respond teasingly, not entirely seriously, "Lucien _knows_?"

Tamlin's gaze snaps to me as if suddenly realising what he said, and—

His face reddens. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I stare at him, waiting, and I can't help the little bit of dread that creeps into my system as I turn my gaze to Lucien. But he is grinning—grinning in a way which tells me that there is nothing to worry about. Because if there was... I know Lucien well enough to know that he would be paling in anticipation of the argument that was about to come.

"What does he mean, Lucien?" I ask. To my surprise, the expression on his face prompts a smile of amusement on my own, too. Forget dread—now all there is curious anticipation.

Lucien grins at me. "Tamlin and I," he says, lifting his goblet to his lips, "have shared one or two females in the past."

I gape at him. "What?"

Tamlin shakes his head; tips his goblet back until there's nothing left in it when he places it back down again. He twiddles the gold stem of it in his fingers, and Lucien—

He folds his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Is it so unbelievable?"

I gape at him, looking back at Tamlin. "No, I—"

How _do_ I respond?

But Lucien is waiting and Tamlin is quiet, so I force myself to look back at Lucien and respond, "He—Tamlin hardly seems like the type to... share."

Lucien laughs—loud and true. "Perhaps not. But when there is nothing tying him to a particular female, the High Lord can be quite..." He looks at Tamlin then; at Tamlin, who desperately pours himself another goblet of wine, "entertaining."

I flush red—furiously, violently. "I see." I swallow, and then— "So... ah... flings?"

Tamlin grumbles, "Not even that."

I lower my gaze to the table, pressing my lips together to try to hide the grin of entertainment on my features, and—

I don't do very well at it, to be truthful.

Lucien sighs dramatically, shaking his head in a movement that seems mockingly sorrowful. "Regardless, it seems those days are over now. Aurora, you've ruined my fun."

I lean back in my chair, my arms folding, and I kick one leg over the other. It is a movement that leaves the tanned skin of my leg exposed; leaves my long legs to be desired, leaves my breasts fuller with the pressure of my arms against my chest—

"Who says I want it to be over?" I ask, my brows rising matter-of-factly. "Who says I wouldn't do the same?"

Lucien stares at me, his mouth agape, and Tamlin...

His fist clenches on the table, his claws slipping free. Is that lust or anger? I can't tell. There is a confusing sort of fire in his eyes as he regards me.

"Well, well," Lucien grins, his voice taking on a different sort of tone—huskier, more mysterious. He leans toward me, his russet eye on me even as he says in Tamlin's direction, "It seems your mate isn't so innocent after tall."

Tamlin growls. "I will gut you with these here claws."

Lucien raises his brows as he looks across at his friend. "You're not interested in what your mate is propositioning?"

Tamlin snarls at him. "She is my mate. _Mine."_

And yet there is something in his tone...

If he truly was against what I suggest, if he truly _was_ against what Lucien seems to keen to try, then I have no doubt that he would have Lucien on the floor with his hands around his throat.

And yet he's not.

And that...

 _Excites_ me.

Perhaps they can smell it on me; the lust, the inquisitiveness. Because Tamlin's gaze returns to me a moment later; Lucien's, too.

The red-haired trickster clicks his tongue, his gaze returning to my own as his gaze rakes down my form in a way I don't entirely mind. He responds to Tamlin, his gaze on me once more, "But it's so amusing to tease you."

Another growl from Tamlin. A warning. I giggle in amusement, taking another sip of my drink, but my mate...

His gaze is still on me. Firm. Full of fire.

"Come here," he orders.

I blink at him, glancing at Lucien for some kind of explanation as to the sudden order, but all I see is Lucien's expression shift; his face fall somewhat. His face becomes serious, but there's this look in his eye—a darkness that wasn't there before. 

It's a hungry sort of darkness. And I cannot help but wonder, as Lucien slowly lowers his goblet to the table, what cue I missed between this centuries-old pair that made Lucien react so.

"Come," Tamlin repeats, "here."

I could refuse him; I could refuse him if I wasn't in the mood for whatever game this is, but I don't. I don't _want_ to. My knees are weak as I stand from my chair, and Tamlin shifts his chair backwards as I come to a stop before him. His fingers find my waist, claws still present, and he lets out a low rumble as he thumbs at me; as he takes me in, my curves, the hourglass shape of my body, as his fingers carress the sensitive dip of my hips—

"Good," he rumbles, and then he guides me into his lap—guides me as if it's _my_ idea.

I say nothing. Nothing, even as I see Lucien shift out of the corner of my eye; nothing, even as Tamlin's fingers roam up my body, daring, teasing, not at all bashful of the way he reaches up to me and grasps at my breast. I barely stifle my intake of breath at his touch.

"Lucien," Tamlin rumbles, his green orbs glued to my own—pointedly, matter-of-factly, "Pour Aurora a drink."

Lucien hesitates, and then—

He bows his head. "Lord."

That word alone excites me more than words can say, and something in Tamlin's gaze darkens all the more as he realises it. He can smell it—he can certainly smell my desire, the way I lust for him, the way I can very much imagine Lucien's deft fingers between my legs—

For all mine and Tamlin's differences, perhaps these are the things that bond us together. Perhaps these things, our passion, is enough to bond us as one.

Lucien refills my goblet, slides it over to Tamlin, and—

Tamlin brings it to my lips.

I drink as he tips it back, and I don't stop drinking until he pulls it away. _I_ _would do anything he asked me to like this,_ I realise, my gaze darkening as my gaze remains glued to my mate's own. _He is flaunting me—flaunting me as if I am an object to mark as his own._ And so what? Perhaps I want to be treated like that; perhaps, in an environment as safe as this, the concept of being thrown about and claimed excites me. After everything...

The idea of knowing that I will be just fine at the end of it, that I will be sated and satisfied at the end of it, drives me wild.

And so when Tamlin leans forward to kiss me, when he takes a fistful of my hair in that way he _knows_ I like, I do not stop the moan that slips from me.

His tongue forces its way into my mouth without even a request for entrance, but his kiss is slow and lazy in a way that screams that he has all the time he desires with me. Tamlin shifts towards me in a way _I_ know means he is just as aroused as I am. Back and forth, back and forth—that's how it was for weeks at the townhouse. Tamlin knows my tells by now, and I know his.

Tamlin gives my breast a squeeze; moves it so it travels down, down, further—

Lucien sighs. "Alright. You made your point."

Tamlin's lips curve upward in amusement, and he releases his hold on me a moment later.

I let out a confused breath, my head still spinning from the lust; from the heat that coats my cheeks—

Lucien stands. "This room stinks of arousal."

Tamlin grins at him, leaning back in his chair. "It has never bothered you before, Lucien."

He sneers at his friend. "It doesn't bother me when _I_ am involved."

Tamlin rolls his eyes, looking back at me, and Lucien sighs as he continues, "In all seriousness, I am not going to sit here and watch you two eye-fuck one another all evening. There _must_ be something fun to do in Sperover."

Tamlin shrugs, his gaze flickering across my features—my eyes, my nose, my lips. I smile lazily as Tamlin responds, "Perhaps."

Lucien rolls his eyes. "You're telling me that you had an entire town created and didn't put _one_ house of excitement in it?"

"A tavern or two," Tamlin murmurs.

He leans toward me to brush his nose against mine, and I hum in content, a gentle smile curving my lips upward. 

Lucien stands. "Then that's all we need. Come! Let's get my bird-brained cousin and get going."

I laugh in amusement, looking back at Lucien. "Lucien, Cora is hardly your cousin."

Lucien rolls his eyes, picking up the pitcher—now the only one full—as he paces towards the doors of Tamlin's study. "Are you two coming or not?"

Tamlin rumbles against my cheek, "Not in the way that I would like."

I gape at him, turning to face my mate to tap him lightly on the cheek—teasingly so, not at all hard enough to hurt. "Tamlin!"

Lucien laughs from the doorway, his head shaking, and in a second the goblet from the table is in his hand and he is pouring himself another glass. "Cauldron boil me, Tam, you've done it now."

Tamlin opens his mouth to speak, looking rather incredulous, but before he is able I slip from his lap and step away from him. "That _is_ too forward of you, High Lord."

He growls at my absence, at my teasing tone, and I can only imagine how displeased he looks as I go to join Lucien at the other side of the room. 

"I, for one," I say, my head tilting up pointedly, "would love to accompany you into town, Lucien."

The red-haired male grins at me, offering me an arm, and then—

"Fine," Tamlin grumbles. "We'll go into town."

I grin back at my mate, but that doesn't stop me from taking Lucien's arm. "Cora first?"

Lucien nods. "Cora first."

We winnow into Sperover a moment later, Tamlin appearing behind us in a silent sort of disgruntlement. Lucien says something that makes me laugh, that makes me follow him instinctively as we take a few steps towards Cora's rickety home—

"Cora!" Lucien yells up at her, to the window that hosts her bedroom. "Open up, you buffoon!"

Inside the house, I hear Cora growl. "Go away, you idiot!"

Tamlin comes to a silent stop beside me, and when I look over at him with a grin, I find that his expression doesn't match my own. Rather, he looks reserved—like his mind is clouded with thought. And despite the fact that my mind is clouded with alcohol, it doesn't stop me from taking a step towards him and wrapping my fingers around his own; no, the drink in my system only encourages me to do so.

"What's wrong?" I whisper, even as Cora and Lucien argue behind us. "Are you not comfortable?" Heavens knows how the wrong place in the wrong situation can make me feel; the anxiety that surges in my stomach at being in the wrong place—

Tamlin swallows thickly, averting his gaze. "Did I really upset you?"

I blink at him, my lips parting in a soft sort of surprise. Why would he think that? But my answer comes to me as soon as I query it—the alcohol. I have never seen him so sensitive, so paranoid, and it is touching, really, with the way he worries so. It is like there is some deeper part of him that the drink unleashes, some sensitive part of him he doesn't usually show—

"No," I shake my head. "It..." I avert my gaze as Tamlin's own returns to me. "I just want... I want to remember it. When it happens."

Tamlin shakes his head. "I wasn't rushing you. I was—I was joking—"

Lucien yells, "Come out here! We're going drinking!"

And even despite Cora and Lucien's back-and-forth arguing, I do not hesitate to bring Tamlin's fingers to my lips and kiss them gently. "I know. I know. It's alright."

"Cora!" Lucien yells. "Come out!"

I am suddenly aware of the presence of other people around us, even as my head feels kind of fuzzy and my body doesn't entirely feel like my own. I press my lips together in order to avoid laughter; in order to _not_ make this situation look worse than it already is.

I lean away from Tamlin and glance over in Lucien's direction. "Lucien," I snicker, "be _quiet—"_

Cora slams the door open with a growl. She hangs off the door with naught but irritation on her features as she says, "Lucien, I swear to—"

She blinks at the sight of my mate beside me, and then the look on her face turns from outrage to exasperation.

"Aurora, don't tell me you encouraged this. Oh, you—" She looks between Lucien and Tamlin and wrinkles her nose. "You two stink of wine."

Tamlin chuckles, and I do not find his amusement at Cora's irritation annoying, not when his laughter is a swift change from the attitude he had showed me before. I giggle as he wraps an arm around me and I nestle into him a moment later, my head finding the space under his arm.

Tamlin says, "We're going drinking. Are you coming or not?"

" _Going_ drinking?" Cora gapes at him, and then she looks back at Lucien—Lucien, who is grinning like a drunken fool. "You smell like you've already been."

I frown, putting on the best show of innocence I can. "Come _onnnn,_ Cora! Are you really going to let me go alone?"

Cora is silent for a moment as she glances between the three of us; Lucien, grinning foolishly at his distant cousin; Tamlin, with the look of amusement on his features as he regards her, such a change from his usual stoic expression; and myself, smiling at her with innocent eyes and a bright smile. I know what she's thinking: poor Aurora, so innocent, being whisked away into town by these mischievous males that can't be trusted—

She growls in frustration. "Fine. Let me get changed."

She closes the door with a loud _bang,_ and I turn to grin up at Tamlin in the next instance. This time, the look on his face as he looks back at me is one of amusement. I can hear Cora rummaging about in her room, can hear her muffled voice and _perhaps_ another if I strain my ears hard enough, but all I can focus on is _Tamlin_ as he stares down at me with nothing but love in his eyes. I think I would be content to let him stare at me like that forever, especially when he moves to cup my cheek, to brush his thumb against my face soothingly, lovingly—

Lucien interrupts us a moment later, shoving a goblet of wine in my hand. "You're not drunk enough."

Tamlin growls at the interruption, and I place a steadying hand on his chest as I take the goblet. "Thank you, Lucien," I respond, "but I don't recommend teasing him anymore. Not if you want to keep your head—"

I see Tamlin stiffen before I see the door to Cora's home open, and when I turn to look in the direction of Cora's front door—

Mor. Of course.

Tamlin's nostrils flare as he regards her, but Mor doesn't seem fazed. She wears a red dress that looks very much like she was _planning_ on a night out regardless, or perhaps that's the sort of thing she usually wears—I wouldn't be surprised, given Night Court fashion. The blonde's arms fold as she regards my mate; my mate, former lover of her High Lord's mate, the male who had hunted and searched for the love that was taken from him until it had ruined him entirely—

"I'm coming, too," Mor says with a shrug.

I can feel the anger bubbling inside Tamlin as I stand there, my fingers still placed over his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat under my fingertips as it rages to the beat of a thousand drums—

And so I place my goblet in Tamlin's hands instead of my own.

And then I smile at my best friend's girlfriend with all the grace of a female relaxed.

Slowly, slowly, Tamlin takes a drink from it—as if he has to consider it, first. As if he moved his eyes away from Mor that he would lose, somehow, like a petty little staring contest I've seen Margie play with another cat she encountered in Spring.

I look back at Tamlin, my eyes begging, beseeching. _Calm. Please be calm. Let us give it a try._

And despite the fact that it seems like a genuine struggle to pull his eyes away from Morrigan, he does. His green-and-gold gaze finds mine; gentle, remorseful, as if he is sorry for this but cannot help it, not after all he has seen of the Night Court, not after all it took from him—

Lucien, however, seems relaxed—nonchalant. As if he has no idea what's going on around him.

I have no doubt that he'd pick up on it if he were sober, but...

Lucien deserves this. Peace. Drunkenness. And if he wants to let loose tonight, if he wants to go wild, I will not stop him. I hardly know of his trauma, but... I saw how Amarantha used him Under the Mountain. How he was an object to taunt Tamlin and Feyre with as if he were a toy. Lucien has been nothing but kind to me, and I want the best for him.

 _Try,_ Tamlin's silent response says, and he nods his head slightly as if to emphasise it. _I can try._

Slowly, his shoulders begin to loosen, but not entirely—not while a relative of the enemy is around.

 _For you,_ his gaze says regardless.

I smile up at him, gentle and lazy, and Mor—

"Is that a problem?" She asks, her head titling upwards.

I nudge Tamlin gently in the side, and he growls. Perhaps I wouldn't be so kind if she looked like Rhysand: the wings, the hair, the eyes... but she doesn't. She's golden blonde just like me, has brown eyes just a few shades darker than my own...

"No," he mutters.

Softly, Mor smiles. "Wonderful. Where are we going?"

"Actually..." I murmur, glancing at Cora, "I think I know just the place."

***

I've heard of _Vernissage_ before.

I've never been, but as soon as we arrive, I know it was the right choice—mostly because of Tamlin. I'm not sure that taking him to somewhere like the tavern I had visited with Bron and Hart would be a good idea, not with Mor, not in a place where he would feel so unwelcome. Vernissage is best; Vernissage, with its green-lit lanterns and the emerald hue it casts about the dark corners of the room; Vernissage, with its sensual dancers, with the music that hums and pulses as if it isn't at all of this world. Even the bar hosts hanging lanterns and pots lit with green, and I wonder just what sort of magic keeps the flames like that; keeps them such an unnatural hue. And so as we cross _Vernissage's_ threshold, as the bouncer closes the door and leaves the darkness of the night sky behind us, Tamlin pulls me closer.

" _This_ is my sort of place," Mor grins at me, and a moment later, she begins making her way over to the booth across the room—one with curved, low seats, enough to host all five of us. "A club, Aurora? I didn't know you were the type."

"I'm not," I respond, shrugging. "I heard of this place in passing, and I thought it might be somewhere the majority of you would like."

Lucien glowers as he throws himself into one of the booth's seats. His arms fold as he says, "I for one _hate_ it here. They didn't let me bring the damn pitcher of wine."

I roll my eyes. "There’ll be more wine, Lucien," I respond. And as Tamlin takes a seat and pulls me into his lap, burying his head in the crook of my neck, I don't stop him. "It's not the end of the world."

Lucien huffs, and if he's uncomfortable by how _close_ Tamlin seems to need to be to me, he says nothing as he responds, "It's the _intention_ behind it. Of _course_ we're going to buy more wine in here, so why take the damn wine I already have?"

Mor laughs. "Perhaps they want it for themselves, Lucien. What else have they got to do? Listen while those inside have fun?"

Tamlin responds plainly, "They have been employed to do a job, so they should do it."

Mor rolls her eyes. "Of _course_ you would say that."

Tamlin straightens, his gaze piercing as he regards her. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

But I've had enough of this—had enough of piercing glares and clenched jaws.

And so when I shift in Tamlin's lap, when I tilt his head upwards forcefully, my kiss to his lips is for one reason alone: to _shut him up._

And thankfully, despite the eyefuls of daggers Lucien keeps throwing at the staff, the night doesn't end up in _too_ much chaos.

Certainly, there is a degree of it. Lucien almost ends up in a fight with the bar staff, to which Cora has to drag him away and apologise _profusely_ for his taunts and prods, and Tamlin just about snarls at any male that comes too close. Mor buys endless rounds of drinks, so much so that I am almost certain she is trying to rival the amount that Tamlin buys, and I have to tell Cora _not_ to take her shirt off in a public place countless times before she actually understands—although she complains plenty about the fact that Lucien could do it without consequence, if he wished to. And by the time I step outside for some air, by the time that I make my way upstairs to the upstairs garden area, my limbs hardly feel like my own at the end of it.

I take a breath as I come to a stop at the edge of the balcony wall, the area around me made up of potted plants and wooden benches that are reinforced with a dark sort of metal which fades away with the night. I flex my fingers against the stone wall as I take in my surroundings. So _this_ is what being truly drunk feels like—truly drunk, without having to sober up. My body feels lagging, like it's not entirely my own, and I can't tell whether I like it or not as I try to stop my head from spinning. I have never had so much fun—I have never _danced_ so much, never laughed so much.

Certainly, the dancing that Tamlin and I had been doing was inappropriate... and I know that because Mor had joined in like a natural. But none of us had cared, and neither did any of the other patrons in the building either. It had been natural—so natural. And, in truth, it only reinforces the fact that I am ready in ways I wasn't before; ready in ways that, if Tamlin asked, I might—

I hear footsteps behind me and whirl around in an instant.

I'm not about to be snuck up on in a state such as this, and a foolish, drunk part of me prepares to fight fearlessly as I turn, but—it's only Tamlin. I smile lazily at him as he grins at me, pacing forward, and he wraps his arms around me with a chuckle that sounds like a melody against my girlish giggle.

"I missed you," he murmurs against the skin of my neck. "You left me."

I snicker against his hair; against the earthen scent of him. "I was gone for five minutes."

"Mm," he responds. "Five minutes too long."

I laugh against him as I respond teasingly, a mischievous glint in my eye, "You're obsessed with me."

"And that's a problem?" He asks, leaning back with a grin.

I narrow my eyes at him, and my lips curve upward. "No."

Tamlin rumbles a sound of approval as he leans forward to press a kiss to my lips. “Besides," he says, "there is only so much of you I can have inside. With other people."

"Oh?" I murmur, amusement clear in my features.

And then—

Tamlin paces me backwards.

"Oh, indeed," he grins.

And all of a sudden I am prompted to lean against the half-wall behind me, and my mate is growling—growling as his fingers find my wrists, trail up my arms, thumb at my body as if he hasn't had me in ages. One hand finds my breast, and the other finds that sensitive spot on my wing, just under the curve of my left arch—

I can't help the moan that slips from my lips at his touch. He knows what he’s doing to me, and he knows what he wants.

"Mm," he rumbles, leaning down to press kisses to my chest, "there are the noises I've missed coaxing from you."

"Missed?" I giggle. "You coaxed them from me well enough the other day."

He growls in agreement. "And I didn't have enough of you."

His words alone are enough to suck the breath from my lips; never mind the way he trails a finger down, down, down to that sweet spot between my legs. He wraps a hand around my thigh and lifts me until I am balanced against the wall, and without hesitation I wrap a leg around his waist. He moans at the feeling, at the proximity, because like this—

Like this, all that separates us is our clothes. And I can feel him very much pressed against me through them.

"Tamlin," I gasp his name.

My fingers reach between his legs before his undoubtedly move to mine, and he hisses at the feeling of it, his lips momentarily drawn away from my own. I kiss him again, demanding and impatient, and as I cup him through his breeches and caress him, he only becomes more passionate. He wants me—he wants me as much as I want him—

"Aurora," he whispers against my lips.

I grin against him. "You want me, don't you? You want me so bad—"

He growls against me, but whether it's in agreement or irritation at my teasing, I can't tell. I slip a finger beneath the waist of his trousers, an easy feat considering that his doublet has long since been unbuttoned—

And I stop them from dipping any further even as I unbutton the top of his breeches. And the button after that.

"Say it," I demand.

Tamlin's breath hitches in his throat. "What?" He croaks, breathless and needy—

"Say it," I demand, my voice sharper—more authoritative. My eyes are ablaze with excitement as I stare into his own. "Say you want me."

Tamlin pauses a moment, confused. I move my fingers down further to cup him—teasing, relentlessly so—and he closes his eyes at the feeling. I swallow down the nerves; the lack of knowledge in regards to _just_ what I'm doing. But this seems to please him well enough, and Heavens, it pleases me—the way he melts like butter in my hands...

"Aurora," he whispers against my lips. I give him another stroke, and I can feel the proud length of him in my hand as I make my way up his length—

"Say it," I hiss against his lips.

"Cauldron," he whispers. "I—I _need_ you."

And with a satisfied grin and a giggle, I push aside the strings of his breeches so that the thick, proud length of him springs free. 

The breath that slips from my lips at the sight of him is a direct response to the desire he prompts between my legs. Longing, a _need_ for him to be inside of me—

I am shifting from the wall and lowering myself to my knees in an instant.

"Aurora," he growls. It sounds like a warning—a warning not to tease him.

I'm too tipsy to pay attention to the feeling swirling about inside my stomach any longer, not when desire surges me forward—not when all I want is _him_. I grip the base of him with my hands as my tongue trails up—up until he’s bucking his hips towards me in response to the feeling of it.

I take him in my mouth slowly, inch by inch, and he growls at the feel of my lips around his length. Tamlin takes a fistful of my hair, encourages me to take in more of him with gentle movements of my head, and then—

He pushes into me until I am gagging against him. Until he presses against the back of my throat.

And I have never wanted him to fuck me more. 

Slowly he begins to move me, to guide me so that I move on him in just the right way, and oh, that feeling between my legs—that desire, the way I wish to be free of any and all clothing entirely— 

He slams into me in a way that tells me of just how long he has been waiting for this, and the moans that slip from my throat as he fucks my mouth seem to only coax him on further, faster, harder. I let him thrust into me time and time again until my jaw begins to ache, until he's bucking his hips against me, and when he reaches his climax, when he slams himself into me one final, lingering time—

The growl that slips from my mate as he comes is animalistic—the sound of a predator.

I gag against the length of him even as his seed spills down my throat, even as my core thuds for his presence inside of me, and—

"Au _rora_?" 

_Mother no, no, no—_ I tug against Tamlin's hold, against the thickness of him as he twitches in my mouth, and all of a sudden he is releasing me, his breathing fast, as if he hadn't realised how hard he'd been holding me—

Cora. That voice belongs to Cora. And as I pull away from my mate and my gaze locks onto hers, I see the horror in her features; the way her eyes are wide as she takes a step away from the door and back towards the stairs.

"Nope," Cora shakes her head. "Nope, nope, nope—"

I don't even get the chance to call after her before I see her race away in the distance. I hardly have time to focus on anything other than my mate; my mate as he wordlessly makes himself decent once more, my mate as he extends a hand to me.

I want to go after her, after my best friend, but I'm not entirely sure I can face her right now. And considering what I saw _yesterday_ of her and Mor—

It's easy enough for my inebriated mind to tell me that it's payback.

Gently, I take Tamlin's hand, although I'm still not entirely over _what_ just happened. "I—was—" I swallow thickly, my face as red as it can get, and for a moment I try to put Cora out of my mind as I turn back at him. One breath, two—it takes me a while to compose myself, but eventually, I manage to ask, "Was that okay?" 

Tamlin lets out a breath as he pulls me up gently. My knees ache, but otherwise, I feel fine. Tamlin's voice is soft, breathless, as he responds, "Aurora, that was—that was _more_ than okay."

I flash him a nervous smile. "Good. Good."

Tamlin grins at me, his expression suddenly playful despite the relaxed bliss on his features, and I am glad for it; glad, because otherwise, it might get somewhat awkward. Even after the deed is done I am nervous, bashful, hardly believing that _I_ could do something like that on him—

Is that what passion does to me? Makes me roar for him in the moment and blush at it later?

I haven't decided whether I like it or not when Tamlin murmurs playfully against my ear, "I think you've repaid me for falling asleep on me now."

I gape at him as I push away from him playfully. "It wasn't my fault you brought me to a willow that sings lullabies!"

His laugh is real and loud and lovely, and then— "Next time," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple, "I'll take you somewhere else."

I tilt my head. "Next time?"

He nods. "For now, though..." His fingers find my own, "Perhaps our next time could be bed together. No requirements—no expectations. Just..." His fingers move to cup my jaw, "us. Because I do not think I can go down there and watch you be around Lucien, when he will very much know what we just did, and _not_ tear out his throat. "

The smile that slips onto my lips accompanies the lazy narrowing of my eyes. I put aside the rest of what he says for the most important part—the part that means more than I can say. "You mean that? No... no expectations?"

Tamlin grins. "When we make love for the first time, Aurora, it will be far more than a drunken night out—as much as you make it hard for me to resist you."

My smile is soft as I lean into him, and then—

"Then take me home, High Lord," I murmur against him.

Tamlin wraps his arms around me and winnows us back to the townhouse, and the night ends just as he says: just us.

Just us and the hopeful Spring Court that awaits us at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I managed to get this one up in time. I'll try my hardest to get the next update out on Friday, but since these are largely NSFW I'm struggling to get in the time to write the chapters. I promise I'm still working on updating the fic, even if the chapter updates are sometimes late <3
> 
> I'm not even sure if this chapter was any good, so I hope you guys enjoyed it!


	56. Tamlin

Our journey through the woods is quiet.

And with the gentle pounding in my head, the one that Aurora seems to have healed from a lot faster than myself, I appreciate the lack of noise—not that I would be opposed to hearing my mate speak. It’s just that the gentle chirping of the birds as we ride is calming, and indeed, the sound of our horses’ hooves as they trot along beside one another is pleasant. The solitude of a morning ride in the woods is a welcome distraction from the hustle-and-bustle of the city and the palace.

Certainly, I could winnow us to our destined location, but the journey to our outings is often just as lovely as the outing itself... and to be truthful, I'm certain that winnowing will only make my head worse. No—the ride sets the mood for the outing, for the picnic basket Aurora has packed, and it gives me time to wake up on the way. Because when we returned to the townhouse in our drunken state, the truth of it is that if Aurora was intent on doing _anything_ similar to what we did on that balcony last night, she was likely disappointed. Because the way I fell asleep once I was in the comfort of Aurora's arms, within a soft bed, is rather shameful.

Unsurprisingly, it is she who breaks our silence—Aurora, who says dreamily, gently, as if the thought is a mere passing one, “I want to see more of your lands.”

I turn to her with only a slight rise of my brows, and I watch as she gazes upon the trees and their high-up leaves, inquisitive and wondrous. I am reminded rather intrusively as I gaze upon her of the stark fact that for forty nine years she was trapped under a mountain. How did she feel when she saw sunlight again? When she was able to fly again? She had told me that she hadn't yet gotten the strength back in her wings. Does she still have far to go?

Aurora only draws her attention from the golden glowing hue of the forest around us when I don't respond—and that is because I am far too distracted by the sight of her, by the thought of her. She turns her head to me, and the sunlight that filters through the trees makes her golden hair glint as if it is her destiny to be under it.

"Tamlin?" Aurora speaks, her brown hues bright as she gazes into my own green ones.

I force myself to look her in the eye; force myself, because it might force me to actually _speak._ I want to take her to every place she has missed out on; every place that I took Feyre, every place that she ruined when she saw fit to destroy my court, to—

"You presume," I manage to drawl, "that I'm not intent on showing you all of it."

Aurora's answering smile is soft; amused. "In truth, I _meant_ that I would like to see more of your people."

They're not words I expect to come out of her mouth, and the fact that I cannot place how they make me feel irritates me—makes me clutch at the reins of my horse absent-mindedly. Part of me says that it is not her place to mingle with the common people, but she has done that much already—and I did the same, once, before... everything. I had even spoken to Feyre of the fact that nobody else had understood; that they had never understood my need to put my people first, my _court_ first—

But there is the fact that I did not put my court first. And for that reason—their opinion of me...

I do not want to take another step closer to risking Aurora realising just how damaged I truly am. How undeserving of her I truly am.

I tried, at least. I tried to put my court first. I had thought I was doing that when I whipped that sentry; I had shown Hybern that my court was strong, that _I_ was a firm ruler, that there was nothing there to manipulate. I had thought that was evident to my court, but...

But they had seen otherwise.

And I suppose I understand it now. I suppose, if it were me seeing a fellow soldier whipped, tortured for something he didn't do...

There is a sickness that pools in my stomach that makes my eyes close with the grief of it.

"Oh," Aurora whispers softly, "I felt that."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry," I murmur, forcing myself to sit up; to take a deep breath. "It's just... those who are not already in Sperover have refused to move for a reason. They... the lands around the manor are barren because of me, Aurora. Not to mention the things my court saw me do, even if..." I look back at her now, "even if I thought I was doing the right thing."

Silently, Aurora stares up at me, her brown hues flickering between mine, searching—

"And?" She asks quietly.

I stare at her—wordlessly, endlessly. And? _And, Tamlin? What?_

"And," I respond quietly, my voice barely audible, "I am afraid of what you will think of me at the end of it." At the end of our visit there, to the farms, to the village nearby—

Aurora's head tilts up, and to my surprise, she looks at me defiantly—proudly. "When will you see that nothing will tear me from you? I met with Feyre herself, Tamlin, and even she could not convince me that loving you is a bad idea. So stop it. Stop _doubting_ yourself. I will slap you round the head if you even think of doubting it a second longer."

"You..." I swallow thickly. "When did you meet with Feyre?" If she did it because she was unsure of me; if Feyre said _anything_ to her that might—that might make her—

"Papa had a meeting with the Night Court," she answers quietly. "He made me join it."

My fingers clench on the reins of my horse in anger. Thesan—forcing my mate to go to the very place she likely least wanted to go to, where the male who had tormented her all those years _rules_ over—

Softly, with a sigh, Aurora responds, "It wasn't too bad, in the end. Elain was kind to me. Mor too. Feyre just..." She lowers her gaze. "She wants what's best for you."

I stare at her for a moment, and then— "She wants what's best for me."

I cannot believe it. I will not believe it. Rage surges under my skin at the very thought of it--Feyre, destroyer of my court, my home, my _people,_ wanting what's best for me. And Aurora... Aurora only presses her lips together, something akin to remorse in her gaze as she softly nods.

I am still staring at her, my rage not at all directed at her but the thoughts in my head, when I force an intake of breath; when I look ahead to the trees in front of me, and through gritted teeth respond, "Feyre is very good at playing games with people. You have Rhysand to thank for that. It is likely she only wanted information from you."

Aurora is quiet for a moment before she responds, "You still love her, Tamlin."

I have never looked across at her faster. "That is not--"

Aurora glowers at me. "You still love her; part of her, at least. I know that you love me and that we will be happy together regardless. But just as you still cling to a piece of her, she still clings to you. You two were large parts of one another's lives. And while she has no desire to even be near you, no doubt," she continues, "I do not think she is so selfish as to wish you unhappiness. You had enough of it, and if she did..." Aurora shakes her head. "I would..."

She shakes her head, averting her gaze, but I stare at her--stare, waiting for her to continue, if only because it allows me simply to put off any sort of feeling that her words muster up within me for a moment longer. She looks back at me in silence, only a small frown accompanying her gaze as she asks, "What?"

I raise my brows at her. "You were speaking."

She clenches her jaw, lowering her gaze. "Well, I decided to stop."

My brows do not move, slightly teasing. "Well, I wish you hadn't."

Aurora's teeth are clenched as she looks at me, her gaze piercing, and continues, "If she wished you unhappiness, it would piss me off."

And to my surprise—softly, slowly, my lips curve upward.

"It would piss you off," I repeat, as if testing the taste of the words on my tongue.

"Yes," she responds, her gaze ablaze with a sharp sort of fire, "it would piss me off. In fact, it would make me want to lash out and rip her head off. But I would not. The world has seen enough war between Spring and Night, and I think Feyre knows it. And," she continues, turning away from me, "I wish not to talk of this any longer."

And just as she wishes, I am silent. That anger still surges under my system, but the sight of her equally as miffed, the knowledge that my irritation is likely brushing off on her, too—

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I did not mean to make you upset."

Aurora shakes her head. "We got off track. Just..." She looks at me now, "promise me you will take me to them." _Your people,_ she doesn't continue.

And softly, regretfully, I nod—without at all wanting to agree to what I just committed to.

We ride in silence for a little while, and I try to push the thoughts that dwell in my mind from my head, instead focusing on our surroundings. Green—endless green, all different shades of it, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves and between the tree trunks casts a heavenly light over the place. And the trees ahead of us... they seem to emit a _different_ kind of golden glow, one which we have come here intent on seeking out.

"We are close," I observe. "Does this seem familiar to when you visited?"

Beside me, Aurora nods softly. Her fingers gently readjust on her horse's reins as she responds, "Yes."

We dismount—and when we make our way towards the clearing, towards the space my mate had used to her advantage a mere day ago, it is just as stunning as I remember.

The tree nicknamed truth teller had scared me as a youngling. It is colossal—so big that anything that could be hiding in its thick branches, within that knotted trunk, under those sprawling roots which delve deep into the ground. But it is the power it emanates that is so unsettling: the shimmer of light along its branches, the soft glow nestled within its leaves, the magic that stings even my nose as I inhale the tang of its scent. If my true form—with its golden glow and halo of light—had a physical form other than myself, then this tree...

It just might represent the power of Spring entirely.

And as the two of us stare up at it, still and quiet, it is Aurora who speaks first; Aurora who breathes, "It's so..."

She doesn't finish her sentence. Truthfully, I'm not entirely sure there _is_ a word to describe this beating heart of a tree. Softly, my fingers find her own—wrap around it in some sort of show of unison, like we are facing this thing together, like a silent acknowledgement that the power within it could tear us apart completely.

"I know," I utter quietly, softly, "I feel the same."

Aurora hums in agreement. "The glow is rather beautiful, but the noise of it—the ringing, or maybe churning..."

Slowly, I look across at her. "Churning?"

She smiles at me as if I'm merely teasing her choice of wording, and then—as she recognises the genuine confusion on my face, the lack of clarity—her brows furrow. I can't hear anything; I can't hear anything at all except for the chirping of birds and the singing of the wind. But Aurora...

"It's like the whispering willow," she responds slowly, her features still evident of confusion. "Except it's not in words. Not any I can understand, not at all. It sounds like thunder, maybe, or—perhaps as if we're underwater."

I blink at her. "Aurora, I hear nothing."

Her expression shifts—something akin to understanding mixed with horror. And when she looks back at the tree—

Something inside me clicks. Recognition.

"They say a little bit of the Cauldron spilled here long ago," I say quietly. Solemnly. "That the tree sprouted from it. Perhaps..."

Slowly, Aurora turns to look back at the tree, and—

"Perhaps it calls to that part of the Cauldron in me," she whispers.

Slowly, I nod.

Aurora narrows her eyes before she averts them in consideration. She looks deep in thought; thinking, considering—

"But it didn't feel like this with Elain," she says, looking back at me. "Elain was Cauldron made."

I tense at the memory—of Hybern forcing Elain into the Cauldron, of him forcing Nesta to do the same. My fault. But I had done it for Feyre; I had done it to get her back. Because she had been through so much already. Because _I_ had been through so much already. I would do it again for Aurora if I had to; I would do it again even if it would mean the destruction of the last bit of trust anyone has left in me.

And I think--despite how I attempt to show the other Lords and everyone outside my court that I am trying--they too know that I would do it all again. For Aurora. For my mate.

Would they not do the same?

But Aurora's mention of Feyre's sister... it is troubling, so much so that it musters up a strange mix of dread and nerves inside my chest. Elain Archeron—I hardly remember her, hardly spoke to her, and yet—

The softness that I remember seeing in her gaze does not mean that she is not just as skilled in manipulation as Feyre is. Feyre had looked at me softly once, too.

Slowly, I avert my gaze to the tree. Coolly, I ask, "And are you and Elain close?"

Aurora glowers at me playfully as she nudges me in my side. "She and Feyre are nothing alike."

I frown, but I do not turn back to look at her. "We will see."

Aurora sighs and moves in front of me now—moves so that I cannot help but look down at her. My mate, with her beautiful features, those plump lips—

"She is Lucien's mate," Aurora says, begging for me to understand, and I do not refuse her touch as her fingers wrap around mine; rather, I intertwine my own with hers, too. "That has to mean something."

I lower my head in thought, and Aurora leans up to press a kiss to my cheek.

"Stop worrying," she says softly. "Stop thinking. Just relax. Do you want a jam sandwich?"

I blink at her, not expecting the question. "A jam sandwich?"

She blinks back at me, stepping away to gesture to the bag she has packed--the one slung across the back of her pretty horse, our two mounts grazing gently at the grass a few metres away. Aurora demands, "You don't appreciate my jam sandwiches?"

I gape at her, and even if I hated jam I would respond regardless, "I—" And then, as I gather my thoughts, I straighten my shoulders and tilt my head up. "Aurora Morningsworn, I appreciate your jam sandwiches very much."

She narrows her eyes on me, but she can't help the small grin that curves her lips up. "Good."

We set a blanket down a little farther from the tree than we intended, if only to save Aurora from the ringing in her ears--the one that the tree seems to bother her so much with. The two of us sprawl out comfortably, the picnic basket to Aurora's left while I nestle up to her right, and... truthfully, the peace and quiet is all the more enjoyable with her here to witness it. Later, I fiddle with a lock of her hair curiously, thoughtfully—

"You were Cauldron born," I say absent-mindedly, only once we have been quiet—and engaged in casual conversation now and again—for too long. "They were Cauldron changed. Perhaps there is a difference."

Aurora shrugs against me; she is far too relaxed, it seems, to care for this conversation. "Perhaps," she murmurs. Her eyes are closed and her wings are comfortably splayed as she basks in the warmth of the sun that filters through the leaves.

I say, "Have you ever considered—"

I cut myself off.

 _Have you ever considered seeking out the witch that carried you?_ I almost ask. But that would mean certain danger; it had been a passing thought rather than a suggestion, and I know Aurora will likely take it as the latter if I—

"What?" Aurora blinks across at me. "Have I ever considered what?"

"Forget I said it," I respond quickly.

Aurora frowns at me, and she props herself up on one elbow as she asks, "No, Tamlin. What?"

I close my eyes as a slow exhale leaves my nose. "Do not take this as a suggestion."

Aurora is quiet for a moment, and then— "Alright."

_Don't say it, don't say it—_

"Have you ever thought about seeking out the witch that created you? That..." I swallow thickly, "carried you?"

I cannot imagine not knowing my mother—my mother, who is the very reason I did not succumb to bitterness long before it finally happened. My mother had been the light of my life as a youngling, and I had received no end of teasing for how close we were. But she had understood me where my father had not; she had encouraged my musical pursuits where my father had not. And although she had made it clear that it could never be my destiny, not as the son of a High Lord, she had supported me. And Aurora... 

Aurora merely stares, and then shrugs, and then she relaxes back onto the blanket again. "It does not interest me."

I blink at her, my lips parting in surprise. "Not even a little?"

"Why?" She shoots back, her gaze narrowed as she turns to look at me. "Does it bother you?"

"I—no," I respond. "I just cannot imagine it."

Aurora's shrug this time is soft. "I hardly had much of my father after those thirty years ended and— _you know what_ happened. It was always myself and my father and Auralis, although he always seemed to keep his distance. I do not know anything of my... mother..." she hesitates on the word as though it's not entirely right, "and I do not want to for that reason. She merely carried me. I have no interest in loving her because of it."

I am quiet for a moment, thinking as I avert my gaze. It is such a strange mindset to have. _Surely a female would wish to know her mother?_ But if Aurora, I suppose, had two parents already like she says, then perhaps she didn't miss anything at all...

"You are very traditional," Aurora observes. Her gaze softens on me; her tone becomes softer, too. "Why?"

I look back at her, confused. "What do you mean why?"

When her gaze moves to my hand to intertwine her fingers with mine, I value the warmth in them. She asks, "Was your father as traditional as you?"

I frown at her. "Why do you assume it was my father and not my mother?"

Aurora glares at me playfully. "Tamlin, there are parts of you that only a father could create."

I stare at her, searching for something I'm not quite sure of; a sign of her being wrong, I suppose. But as much as I hate to admit it, she's right--the pieces of me that my father created are the parts of my brothers that he forged, too. My mother is the reason I am half decent. My mother is the reason that Rhysand had spared me that day he had come to slaughter the rest of my family.

I lower my gaze to our hands, and my tone is quiet as I respond, "Yes, I suppose. My father." I turn to look at her, my head still angled downwards in reluctance. "Why do you ask?"

Softly, Aurora smiles—kindly, in a way that reassures me. "I'm just asking questions as you did."

I let out a hum as I sit up absent-mindedly. Aurora follows, although her movement is far slower than my own, and in no time she is wrapping her arms around me from behind in a gentle manner which I have done to her countless times before. I close my eyes in the warmth of her embrace.

"You are defensive, too," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my back even despite the material of my thin undershirt separating us. My doublet has long since been discarded, thrown off in an attempt to be comfortable. Aurora's arms wrap around me as she murmurs, "I love all of it, if you were wondering."

I let out a hum of consideration. "I do not know what you want me to say, Aurora. I have reason to be defensive. I have reason to be... traditional,” I respond. “I do things the way my father did them because it is what I know. Because it has worked for my people thus far. And the uncertainty around _changing_ things..." I shake my head. The High Lord of change, of shifting, of transformation—afraid of _change—_

 _What if I disappoint them more than I have disappointed them already?_ It is a worry that reaches back farther than my most recent failings. My people—in my youth I had always tried my best, and my people saw that. But I would be lying if I said that I thought my best was ever good enough.

My father would have agreed with me, too. I am the last person he would have picked to be High Lord if it were his choice; if he had any say in his power. Indifferent where my brothers were brutal; reckless where my brothers were calculated—

They were the Spring chill. I was something else entirely.

Softly, Aurora rests her head on my shoulder. "May I ask another question?"

I pause, and then—a low noise of confirmation, even if I do not like where this conversation is headed. "If you must."

And she must, as it seems. Softly, kindly, she asks, "Was your father kind?"

I let out a small breath; a bitter exhale of laughter. I shake my head. My father, _kind—_ "No. He was not kind."

Aurora pauses, and then— "I suppose he wasn't kind to his people, either."

I frown. My silence is answer enough.

Aurora asks, "Then what makes you think his traditions are?"

Irritated, I spin around to face her. "What is this about?" I demand. "Has somebody told you of our customs? Am I doing something that displeases you?"

Aurora sits back slowly, a soft frown lining her features, and then her expression softens as her gaze lowers. "Truthfully... although you have your tells, Tamlin, and although there is much that the mating bond tells me of you, there are some parts of you that you keep hidden away. And I wish to know of them. All of it."

I frown at her. "My head is not a friendly place, Aurora."

But she merely shrugs dismissively. "I can handle it."

I raise my brows at her. "You would not be saying that if you could truly see inside of it."

Aurora looks away, and then in no time she is suddenly standing. "Fine,” she responds, her head tilting up proudly. “Then let's put it to the test."

I blink up at her. "Aurora?"

She reaches for the wicker basket by the side of the blanket; flicks it open and pulls out a sealed pitcher. And when she opens it--

Glowing light.

She grins at me. "I saved some in case I needed it in future, and... I figured it might be fun to try one day."

I gape at her before I respond, "You want us both to drink enchanted juice? Aurora, I—you do _not_ want to hear my every inner thought."

Her grin doesn't fade. "I will love you at the end of it regardless. What if we make it a game? You ask one question, I ask another—our answer has to be either yes, no, or something equally as simple. That way, we minimise our chances of telling each other something _truly_ horrid."

I stare at her, silently gaping, and Aurora—

She just stands there, grinning, her feet bare on the pristine sheets of the blanket under us.

One beat. Two beats. She’s still waiting.

"Fine," I eventually respond, standing. "We drink."

Her smile widens, and then she leans across to kiss my cheek. And when she pulls back— "We drink," she repeats, mimicking my own words. 

She leans back, glancing between myself and the pitcher of enchanted juice uncertainly, and I can’t help the soft smile that slips onto my features.

"Do you want me to go first?" I ask. And bashfully, although this is _her_ idea, she nods.

And without a thought as to whether this might just be a game on her part, a teasing game, I take the pitcher from her hands gently, softly. And with a small smile as I bite down my own nerves, I bring the pitcher to my lips. And take a drink. And—

I grimace at the feeling of it as it trickles down my throat, but I manage not to choke, at least. It burns, but not in the way that alcohol sometimes burns—it is a cleansing burning, a comforting burning. And as I see that glowing ball begin to glow in my chest, its light reflecting off my mate's features, I see the wonder in her eyes, too. Gently, she peels my fingers away from the pitcher; brings it to her own lips.

In no time, that golden ball of light is glowing in her throat, too. But it doesn't seem to bother her at all; if anything, with the way her eyes flicker closed, it seems to soothe her. _I wonder if this drink will work on her at all,_ _given her Cauldron heritage—_

Before I am able to test it out, Aurora lets loose a breath and opens her eyes to gaze upon me; gentle, soft, loving. "Who goes first?" 

“Me," I respond, without even really wanting to.

_Me--it always has to be me._

My eyes widen at my own words.

_Cauldron, this is going to be the end of me--_

She raises her brows at me. "You're so controlling."

She freezes, her eyes widening, and then—

Her hands fly up to cover her mouth a moment later.

The giggles come after; giggle upon giggle of amusement.

It seems they are infectious, too, because I cannot help the laugh that slips from my lips as I respond, "You still sucked me last night despite it."

Her giggling stops, if only to make way for the gasp of shock she makes after—and _then_ she swats me with her hand. "Tamlin!"

"What?" I laugh. "It's true! You have never complained before!"

She glowers at me, her arms folding, and then she sits herself back down on the blanket before she demands, "Ask me the question."

I chuckle as I follow suit, sitting down opposite her, but before I can even stop myself—

"Are you a maiden?"

Even my own face reddens at the question; it is one I hadn't entirely expected to slip from my lips. But if this potion forces me to voice my deepest desires, my truest of thoughts—

Cauldron boil me. _Are you a maiden?_ So stupid, so boyish—

Aurora doesn't seem impressed, either, as she glowers at me and responds, "Yes. And you're a bastard. How many females have you been with?"

It's her turn to turn red now; her turn to show her embarrassment at a question she did not at all want to slip from her lips. And as she shrinks, an attempt to make herself smaller, it is quite perhaps the funniest thing I have ever seen—if only because I get to tease her for it.

I laugh in response. "And you condemn me for my question!"

She growls as she shoves me, and it does not at all stop the laughter that spills from my chest freely now. No; rather, I let myself fall back so that I am leaning on my elbow, and I do not even quieten when Aurora moves to shove me again. I simply grasp at her, pulling her down with me, and she glowers at me as he paws at my chest.

I chuckle as I ask, "Do you really want to know?"

Aurora glares as she responds, "Yes."

I'm quiet for a moment, and then I shrug. "Plenty," I respond, my arms wrapping around her form in a far more comforting way than our teasing conversation. "I've lost count." 

She gapes at me, awed and outraged, although there is a hint of amusement on her features as she exclaims, "Tamlin!"

I blink at her. "What?” I demand. “How do you expect I grew so proficient at learning where your sweet spots on your wings are?"

The way she gapes at me now is different; less amused, more quiet.

One beat, two—

I grin, my voice lowered as I ask, "Are you jealous?"

"Yes," she responds, and then—her hands fly to her mouth again. And then she groans in irritation.

"Hah!" I laugh. My arms unwrap from her waist as I lie back on the picnic blanket, continuing, "Jealousy suits you."

She glowers at me, sitting up, and I cannot help but be amused at her irritation. "It will not suit me if you test me on it."

I raise my brows at her. "Is that a threat?"

"Yes. And you," she says, shifting—shifting so that she may climb on top of me to straddle my waist—as she continues, "are going to have to do plenty to make this up to me if you keep going on like this, High Lord."

I grin at her. "Oh?"

Her eyes narrow on me. "Oh indeed."

"What will you do?" I tease, grinning. "You have already forced truth potion down my throat."

She gapes at me. "Forced! Is that what you think I did to those girls?"

I shrug nonchalantly, my brows rising in the same way. "Yes. And perhaps they will write poems about it some day, too."

Aurora stares at me, lips parted, and then she rolls her eyes. "Poems. Not songs? I much prefer songs."

I gape at her in mock outrage. “And what will I do with the book of poems I have been compiling for you now that you’ve broken my heart?”

She blinks at me. "Are you really compiling a book of poems?"

I grin at her. "Is that so hard to believe?"

Aurora's lips slowly part, shock clear on her features. "Yes, actually," she responds, and her tone softens when she continues, "you hardly seem like the type to appreciate such things."

I shrug softly, my fingers reaching up to carress her cheek. "I play a mean fiddle, too."

Aurora gapes at me, and then she bats my hand away with a grin. "Tamlin Oldthorne!" She laughs. "All these things you are keeping from me... and to think I have laid myself bare before you."

I can't help the laugh that slips from my lips. "You have laid yourself bare before me in more than one way, apparently."

Aurora rolls her eyes, and she averts her gaze to the forest. She is quiet for a moment before she looks back at me.

"I never understood poems," she admits, her fingers tracing patterns over my features; my nose, my cheeks, my chin. "Their words feel so minced, so... difficult to understand. Why not just say how you feel?” She angles her head as she looks back at me; angles it as if to indicate that she’s unsure.

Softly, I lower my gaze to the grass. “Sometimes it is easier to be vague,” I respond. “That is why poetry speaks to me. It is easier to capture a feeling in poetry; often, the feeling the words give off is more important than the meaning.”

Aurora is quiet as she gazes upon me, and then— "Ah," she eventually hums. "I see how that works for you, now.”

I roll my eyes, and when I lean up to press a kiss to her lips, she doesn't stop me. "Stop analysing me, devil."

Aurora's laughter is soft now—just as sweet as the juice from the truth tree. "You make it so easy, beast."

The rest of our evening is filled with kisses and the spouting of teasing truths, and I would not have it any other way. And as Aurora saves some of that juice for another time, another undoubtedly teasing or troublesome moment, I think that we just might have to steal away more innocent time like this again in future.

 _I know just the place to take her next,_ I think, tucking her hair behind her ear with a soft smile. And when I head into town later that day, it is with a devilish plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm not feeling too good about it, so I hope it's not terrible. I'm not feeling very well lately, so please forgive me if any future chapters are a little late. I'll try to stick to the Wednesday schedule or at least around them, but while I'm feeling low it's a bit difficult.
> 
> Love you guys <3
> 
> Tia


	57. Aurora

My cycle begins the next day, and it’s unfortunate in more ways than one.

The last time I had a cycle it had _not_ been pleasant, but they rarely are. And now, at least, I have a bathroom to vomit in.

That's what I'm forced to do as soon as I wake and find myself in a half-asleep haze, the pain so strong it's overwhelming. For a moment I have to remind myself where I am, because the pain reminds me so much of under _there_ that it's hard to differentiate the pain with my surroundings. There had been little luxury under Amarantha's rule: I had my cell and my cell alone, and anything other than that was out of the question. I did not have many bleedings under there, of course, not when food was so scarce and she hardly kept me healthy. But when she wanted to show me off, when she wanted to flaunt me in front of the crowds...

They would always come after that. Like a nice little painful present; a reminder of the embarrassment she put me through.

I'm not sure how long I spend in the bathroom, but what I do know is that the cool marble floor is refreshing enough to make me want to stay there. And later, when Tamlin appears in the doorway carrying a large silk-wrapped box, the excitement on his face—perhaps due to the present he carries?—swiftly disappears at the sight of me. I'm not surprised, not when I am sprawled across the bathroom floor in fear of moving farther from a few inches from the toilet. He places the present down in no time, scoops me into his arms, and when he asks me what's wrong I hardly have the courage to admit it. It's not something I want to discuss with him, and yet... 

When I explain, I can't help but think that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a male flush so red before.

Still, he carries me to the bed swiftly, if not somewhat awkwardly. Hands—he hadn’t known where to touch me. Instead, he opens the windows to allow the cool air to flow through and turns to me right after.

“The pain,” he says, his voice somewhat... strained. “This is because of it?”

Gently, I nod. I tilt my head backwards as another wave of pain overwhelms me, uttering weakly, "Yes."

Tamlin is quiet for a moment, and then— “I will be back.”

The wave of nausea that hits me isn't just because of the pain; it's because I hate the thought of him leaving me. I tilt my head to look up at him. "You're leaving so soon?"

Tamlin's gaze rakes over me. The sheets are thrown back, and my skin is cool and sticky. "I'll get you something for the pain."

I close my eyes. Pain... yes, I can't take much more of this. I clench at the sheets, my fists balling up. "Come back right away."

I feel Tamlin's lips on my skin, tender against my forehead, and then he's gone.

Eventually the pain subsides, if not just a little bit. I manage to sleep for the half an hour—I estimate—that he's gone, but as soon as I wake the pain returns once more. Tamlin, at the foot of the bed, has done as he said he would: he has with him a tonic from the alchemist in town. It tastes bitter and horrible, but it does the trick to get rid of the pain if not send me back to sleep again.

That's how the next few days go; tonic, sleep, and rarely and barely keeping any food down. I hate it. But while I'm sleeping, while it keeps the pain away, I hardly have the time to think much of it. It's only days later that the pain begins to subside: as usual, when my cycle is reaching its end that's when the pain gets a little more bearable. Finally, I'm able to move from writhing in bed to curling up downstairs in front of the fire, and I even manage to read a book or two. But it's one of those later days that there is a knock on the door... and it's not Tamlin, not when he usually just lets himself in. If it were Tamlin, he'd just appear suddenly without my half-conscious self truly realising he was ever gone. I'm sure he's been visiting me to check on me in his free time, although I'm not sure what he's been doing lately. Duties—endless duties that occupy his time, at least when he's not with me.

I force myself to get up from the sofa and make my way towards the front door, which isn't a long journey at all considering how cosy the townhouse truly is. I give myself a quick glance-over in the mirror beside the entrance to the house before I open it a crack, peer through it—

Red hair, that familiar mechanical eye that contrasts his russet one...

“Lucien?”

His smile is feeble in the sense that he doesn't seem sure that he should be here, and I would scold him about the fact that it’s just a bleeding cycle if I didn’t see the figure peeking out from behind him. Shorter, feminine, and downright beautiful—

My smile can't help but widen. "Elain?”

I open the door some more, allowing for light to spill into my home. Elain's smile in greeting is gentle. Gentle and kind. She's garbed in a free-flowing red-and-purple dress that looks fitting for the Dawn Court, and I wonder if she's trying to look festive while still sticking to those pastel colours she seems to favour in the same way as I. Either way, she looks radiant; truly beautiful, as ever.

"I brought biscuits," Elain beams at me. "Lucien told me you weren't feeling well, and oh, I understand the pain."

I blink at her softly. "You do?"

Elain's smile turns bashful. "In the way only a woman can.”

My lips form a soft _oh._ I understand what she means, even if being called a _woman_ does sound strange. Humans and their customs...

I open the door for them and invite them in, and I realise as my friends enter my home just how much I have _missed_ being conscious, never mind having friends around me. Lucien seates himself in the armchair nearest to the door while Elain sits on the one opposite. The sunlight which streams through the window only brightens her features, while the shade cast over Lucien’s own darkens his look.

I wonder if there's something symbolic about that, but I am far too tired to ponder over it. Instead... 

“Tea?” I ask, hoverig near the three-seater between them. Tea is easy; tea is simple. 

Lucien shakes his head, standing, and gestures for me to take a seat. “I’ll make the tea. You two sit.”

I shake my head in weak exasperation, but I don't refuse him the pleasure of making the drinks—not when my back still aches and it's somewhat difficult to stand straight. Instead, I make myself comfortable. Elain smiles at me, and I smile back at her. A bit cheekier, a bit wider. I’m glad to see her; perhaps I missed her more than I ever realised.

Elain leans towards me, her dainty fingers clasped around the arms of the ornate and cosy chair. "Lucien is quite the carer during these times.”

I raise my brows and turn to look at Lucien, but he has long since disappeared out of the view through the archway leading to the kitchen.

”Is this true, Lucien?" I tease. I hear the kettle begin to bubble.

He shakes his head as he responds, "You're both teasing me."

I realise then how lovely it is to see them around one another. There is something between them—something which fizzles and snaps and yet is so _invisible._ Is this how everybody feels about myself and Tamlin, about the mating bond, or is that fizzling simply the words that lie unsaid between them? I'm unsure of it, and I am dying to know.

I turn to Elain perhaps a bit too eagerly. "I'm glad to hear that Lucien has been taking care of you. Do you two often spend time together?"

My tone is curious and yet... full of meaning. If I had a cup of tea in hand, if Lucien would hurry up with it, my sly little question would do perfectly alongside a subtle sip of it.

As if on cue, the kettle in the kitchen begins to whistle. I have no doubt that Lucien is using his powers to warm it as Elain lowers her head; avoids answering the question. And as Lucien emerges from the kitchen and fixes me with a stern look, a look of warning, I know that I absolutely _have_ to think up a way to get these two to spend more time together. And if I'm the middleman, then that leaves it to me to—

"Sugar, Aurora?" Lucien asks, a very obvious attempt to change the subject. He doesn't ask Elain; he must know how she likes her tea already. Indeed, even as he places Elain's down before her, he fixes me with that keen, watchful gaze.

My lopsided smirk challenges that look, and his eyes narrow on me further.

"No, thank you," I respond with mock innocence.

But my expression fades as I see how Elain distances herself from Lucien ever so slightly as he rises from putting her cup down on the table; how she seems wary of him, not at all eager to close the distance between them. Perhaps I had misunderstood; perhaps they aren't very close at all. They are a curious duo... and indeed, as Lucien moves closer to me and places my cup of tea on the table, Elain seems more comfortable.

Lucien waves a hand, his own cup appearing within his grasp as he lowers himself to his chair. He opens his mouth to comment, to speak, but Elain must not see; she is the one who speaks first as she reaches for her cup. Her first words are _thank you, Lucien,_ and then—

"Perhaps Lucien could teach the High Lord of Spring his ways," Elain says, her gaze trained on me. She gently blows on the steaming liquid in her cup. “I’m surprised he’s not here, given how worried Lucien says he was about you.”

Blinking, I turn to Lucien. “He was worried? Is he alright?”

Lucien raises his brows at me, his cup of tea still clasped between his hands. He looks like he has no intention of drinking it at all as he responds, “Yesterday, you were screaming in pain. _You’re_ asking if he’s alright?”

I shrug gently, my gaze on him unwavering.

Lucien sighs and rolls his eyes. “He is worried sick about you, but other than that, he’s fine. He’s stuck with the High Priestess, but I assure you afterwards he will likely be right here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elain shift. Is that discomfort? I wonder if she’s seen Tamlin since... well, since _everything._ In fact, I’m surprised that Elain came at all if she thought Tamlin might be here... unless Lucien has brought her now _because_ Tamlin is busy. I wouldn’t be surprised, and I don’t entirely blame her for not wanting to be around him. But that doesn’t change the fact that I do still want her to see that he’s...

If not changed, then better than the stories make him out to be. Better _now._

I feel the sudden need to change the subject, so I turn to her with a small smile.

”Elain,” I begin, “Lucien has spoken to me plenty of your baking skills... mostly when he disses my own, but regardless, you must help me. Tamlin refuses to eat my food so Lucien is forced to be my taste tester, and I’m not sure how many more chokes and sly comments I can take.”

Elain blinks at me. “I didn’t know that you like to bake.”

Lucien snorts. “Somehow Rora manages to burn _everything_ she bakes. I don’t understand it.”

I hiss at him and shoot him a glare. “I’ll stick _you_ in an oven if you don’t stop.”

Elain chokes on her tea with laughter— _literally_ chokes. She coughs and then coughs again and I see Lucien’s shoulders straighten, but Elain waves a hand as the coughs die down and the redness in her cheeks fades. And when Lucien braces himself to stand, presumably to rub her back, when he asks if she’s alright— 

“Fine, thank you,” Elain says weakly. And then—after clearing her throat one final time, she turns to me with a smile. “This knowledge will make your Solstice present all the easier, I suppose.”

"You don't to get me a Solstice present, Elain—"

She shakes her head. "I insist."

I let out a soft laugh, promising todo the same, and the rest of the hour-and-a-half that we three spend together blurs into a conversation of varying topics with laughter sandwiched between. And later, when Lucien leaves just the two of us alone for some ‘female time’, I cannot help but feel grateful—despite the fact that I had scoffed at him when he had said it.

”I missed you,” I tell her truthfully, moving closer to her, and I watch as Elain's features soften in something akin to gentle appreciation.

I hadn't realised how much I missed her, but... oh, how I have yearned to have a friend like me, one that will encourage me when I talk about things as unimportant as dresses and fabrics and pearls as though they _have_ some importance. And as I clasp Elain's hands in my own with a silly, girlish grin on my face, she doesn't pull away.

“I missed you, too," Elain admits. "After the dinner, I was worried that you might not want to see me.”

I let out a breath, a strange sort of relief filling my system. I shake my head and respond, “I felt that way about you, in some way. Curious as to whether it might have changed anything. But... I’m very glad you’re here, Elain.”

Elain lowers her gaze as she says, "I felt terrible asking Azriel to bring me here, so I didn't. He... he does so much for me, you see, and although I'm not entirely comfortable around Lucien... well. He knows the Spring Court. He’s probably the _best_ person to ask.” 

I tilt my head—slowly, inquisitively. Carefully. "Do you mind if I ask why you’re not comfortable around Lucien? He’s a good male. Perhaps one of the best, but... of course, I’m sure you have your reasons.”

Elain looks up at me and near grimaces. "It..."

She looks away, but she doesn't continue. There is this look in her eye; remorse, perhaps, or worry of how I will perceive her now that she has let that little bit of information slip. But although I cannot imagine not feeling _comfortable_ around one’s mate, I will not judge her on it. Not when she has shown me such kindness already.

I move my hands from hers, an attempt to give her space. And in order to lighten the mood somewhat, I ask, “Perhaps you are not interested in males?"

Elain's flush is violent as she looks back at me. “No! I am interested in men. It's just..." She takes a long time before she speaks again. "There was... a human man. Once."

Slowly, I raise my brows. Girlish curiosity—suggestive, interested. "Oh?"

Elain swallows thickly—thickly, in that way that speaks of a tight throat and weary eyes. "He is... he's not..." She takes a deep breath before she straightens her shoulders, and softly, solemnly, strongly, she says, "Graysen has no interest in Fae women."

Women, men—all such human habits. Elain still has those, and yet...

He doesn't love her because she's Fae?

If this human man's prejudice and disdain lies in the point of Elain's ears, the length of her limbs, then he does not deserve her at all. He does not even deserve to be _convinced_ of her beauty in an attempt to love her, and he does not get to witness her effervescent grace.

My gaze becomes more serious, more protective. "And this male has not suffered a tragic death yet?"

Elain winces. "Please don’t joke about it.”

I pull back slightly. "Sorry, Elain. It is just... any male would be lucky to have you." And then, teasingly— "You are _quite_ beautiful, you know.”

Elain gives me a half-smile, one that says to me that she either does not believe it or does not want the compliment. _Change the subject, change the subject—_

"Would you like a tour of the house?" I ask her, smiling.

Elain's answering smile is soft. "I would love one."

The house tour is our relief from talking about topics that, perhaps, we will find easier to discuss with one another in time. I get the feeling that Elain still has a lot that she needs to work through, and although it hurts me to see her in pain—pain caused by somebody who does _not_ deserve to be thought about—I will not press on it in fear of making it worse; in fear of scaring her away. I start with the living room, and then the kitchen, and then the roofed garden that the kitchen leads to. We spend perhaps more time in there than in any other places, with Elain commenting on the assortment of flowers; on the trailing ivy that I have been trying to coax into circling the pillars. Afterwards, we move into the dining room, and then we move on to upstairs; to the study, to the bedrooms—

“What’s this?” Elain asks.

When I look at her, she’s peering at the present laid out on the dresser—the one Tamlin had with him when he found me on the bathroom floor.

My lips part in surprise. I’d completely forgotten about it, and until now, I haven’t really had the energy to open it. It’s not exactly easy to miss; it’s medium in size, long too, and wrapped in pretty pink silk that just _tells_ me it’s expensive. 

I glance across at Elain. “Tamlin brought it earlier in the week, but I was either in too much pain to open it or I didn’t have the motivation. But I suppose... hm. I suppose I could open it now.”

Elain grins at me. “From the sight of the box, it looks fancy indeed. Does he buy you a lot of presents?”

Gently I shrug, my fingers ghosting over the smooth white of the box. “He buys me presents sometimes. I do love the heartfelt ones, though. He gifted me a trunk of his mother’s dresses, ones he hadn’t touched in years. I think it meant a lot to him.”

Elain says nothing, and I don’t blame her—not if she’s comparing the Tamlin I speak of to the Tamlin she has had experiences with, putting it all together in her head. But when I pull the ribbon from the box, when the lid is removed and the dress is inside revealed—

We both gape at the dress laid out before us.

Pink in colour and silky in its material, it leaves little to the imagination and looks like it will shield me from the warmth even less so. Even the sight of it as I hold it up, my touch gentle against the expensive material, sends pictures of seductiveness to the mind. I cannot imagine myself wearing this a few months ago, but now...

Tamlin knows this new me very well, it seems.

Elain clears her throat—daintily, elegantly. “Well,” she says, “I think it’s obvious how well you and the High Lord are getting along.”

Her words draw my mind away from _just_ what Tamlin had intended that this dress be used for, and I look back at Elain as I take a deep breath. “He is a devil.”

Elain lets out a soft laugh. “Although scandalous, it’s a lovely gift. Perhaps a bit too chilly for the winter, but I suppose it _is_ always Spring here.”

A thunderous clap roars across the skies, and I cannot help the yelp that slips from my lips at the sound. A look outside offers me an explanation: the rain outside pours and pours, and thunder looms like a shadow in the corner of one’s vision outside. Lightning flashes in the distance, and I cannot help but let out a breath; cannot help but wonder if it has something to do with Tamlin’s mood.

"Another cup of tea, I think," I breathe, my hand over my heart.

"Me, too," Elain says, her breath equally as shaken as mine.

Later, when Lucien and Tamlin return together, I cannot help the worry in my eyes as I look at my mate—but as he crosses the threshold of the door, he looks perfectly fine and still. Tamlin’s doublet is soaked, but he doesn’t bother to take it off in front of Elain—not in the way he usually does. His gaze meets mine and it is keen like a predator, and yet...

It reveals no anger. No upset.

He looks suspiciously innocent.

I narrow my eyes on my mate, well aware that he’s guilty of _something_ , but I keep silent once I see the brow he raises at me.

Questioning.

Daring.

 _Go on,_ it says. _Ask me._

So I do.

”The storm out there looks terrible,” I comment slyly, innocently. I stand from the sofa and raise my brows at him. “What could have brought it on, do you think?”

Lucien shrugs, glancing at Tamlin before back at Elain. “Spring hasn’t had a storm like this for a while. It might go on a while.”

Tamlin nods. ”It rages all across Spring.”

His eyes are glued to me. This time, they seem to plead with me.

Elain looks at me, worry written all over her face, and then she looks back at Lucien. “Should we leave now? Before it gets worse? I don’t want to worry anyone at home—“

Lucien shakes his head and takes a step forward, his features gentle. “It could be dangerous. Are you pushed for time? It’s getting into the afternoon, and I thought we could maybe wait it out. Maybe have some wine...“

No, no, wrong thing to say. Doesn’t he know that the thought of a glass of wine with one’s mate sounds suggestive? Carries weight? It does to Elain, I suspect, because it would to me.

”Elain,” I cut him off, sending him a warning look, “I’m sure it will be over later on. I don’t think you ought to worry.”

Elain’s features soften somewhat as she turns back to me, and there is a sort of relief in her face as she asks, ”Do you mind, Aurora?" A pause, and then— "Will you drink too?”

I smile at her. "Let the three of you drink without me? Please. My current state does not determine whether or not I can swallow wine.”

Over the next few hours, I like to think I reinforce my statement very well. The four of us work as a comfortable and humble combination, each of us complimenting one another well despite Tamlin and Elain's lack of familiarity. We drink and laugh, and later in the evening, music starts playing out of nowhere; festive sounds that I'm not familiar with and yet feel like I know all too well. It’s only a matter of time before I find myself in Tamlin’s arms, the two of us dancing in a messy, uncoordinated sort of way. Elain and Lucien speak amongst one another across the room, and I can’t help but grin up at my mate as my arms wrap around his neck.

”Did you do this?” I ask him quietly, pressing my lips to his jaw in a half-murmured kiss. “Cause the storm?”

Tamlin is trying to stay deathly serious as he responds, “You know the weather is in my control.”

I laugh. “You know what I mean.”

Tamlin is quiet for a moment, and then—he smirks, although it’s soft as if he’s trying to hide it. “Perhaps.”

He spins me out of his embrace before I can ask any more questions... and in truth, he’s given me all the answers I need. Causing a storm just to keep Elain here... it’s genius and cruel all at once, even if she does seem to be enjoying herself plenty. And as Tamlin as I dance, our movements lazy and uncoordinated, the night rolls on as if we've done this for thousands of years; all four of us, together. 

I am glad for the pain if it brought us all together, never mind if it pushes Elain and Lucien one step further towards happiness too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while to get out! I lost any and all motivation to write, so it's just recently come back to me. Thanks Little Women and Emma (2020) for giving me inspo. 
> 
> Next chapter will likely be from Lucien's POV with either Elain and Aurora as an added POV. We'll see!
> 
> Please let me know what you enjoyed in a comment! Comments keep me going :)


	58. Lucien and Elain

> _LUCIEN..._

The storm had been my idea.

I had felt somewhat guilty that such an idea of genius had come to me, but it hadn't been enough to stop me from asking Tamlin to do it. He had narrowed his eyes on me and then laughed, and before I knew it, the heavens had started pouring—everywhere except around him.

And so as I growled at him, as I had hastened my pace through down in an attempt to get out of the rain, all I could think—hope—was that this would work. Elain has hardly been interested in spending time with me. She had seemed to come out of her shell at one point, but now... now, she is right back into it. It frustrates me at times, and I'm not even sure whether it's _me_ that gets so vexed or the mating bond itself.

But the evening had gone on well; _goes_ _on_ well. And as Elain and I lean gently against the back of the sofa, the storm having died down somewhat, I'm glad for whatever it was that spurred this idea on. Because as the alcohol blurs my senses, as it reddens Elain's cheeks, it's not just her beauty that I'm excited about—it's the fact that she is _smiling._ Smiling around me. And as she watches Tamlin and Aurora dance, the jingle of music gracing my ears from an invisible source, I think I can spy something reminiscent on Elain's face. Something hopeful.

There is something hopeful in me, too, as I stand; as I extend a nervous hand towards her.

"Will you dance with me, Elain?" I ask softly, my tone of voice betraying the wooziness I feel inside. Wine—wine always makes me head-dizzy, the kind of drunk I like. But this...

I think I need the confidence that wine gives me for this.

Elain's lips part, but no sound comes out. It's as if she isn't sure what to say. Yes, no—it's a simple answer, although for some reason, for Elain, it is difficult.

"It's just a dance," I remind her. I try to keep my tone soft.

Because despite the irritation that this _isn't_ how I wanted things to go with my mate once I found them, despite how frustrated her disinterest in me makes me feel, I care for Elain. And I hope I would regardless of whether she was my mate or not.

I'm not sure of the outcome of that hope, though; the outcome of that alternate scenario.

Elain presses her lips together, her brown hues flickering between my hand and my eyes, and then—

"Should I know these steps?" Elain asks softly, glancing over to Tamlin and Aurora. Her fingers meet mine as she rises.

I feel my throat become tight.

I force myself to move my gaze in the direction Elain's currently lies. "Steps?" I manage to say, and then it's easier for a soft laugh to follow. "I wouldn't call those steps. More like mindless movement. But if you prefer—"

"No," Elain interrupts, and her confidence surprises me. "I think mindless movement is just about all I can manage."

Tentatively, slowly, I draw her away from the sofa. Closer to me. "Because of the wine?"

Elain nods. "I can't tell whether Feyre will be disappointed or amused, to be truthful."

I manage to let out a soft laugh as I draw her closer, and to my surprise... Elain doesn't fight it.

In fact, she leans in. Moves with me.

And as we dance, as I twirl her gently, as I touch her gently and carefully like a first-time lover, I wonder just how much I should savour this memory.

Is this the beginning of something, or a final end?

> _ELAIN ..._

I don't know why I say yes to that dance.

With Lucien, I usually avoid him out of... guilt. A little bit of fear. Annoyance, sometimes, too. He is so insistent, so determined to make this work, and yet with Aurora and Tamlin dancing in the background, with the two of us in that room looking so _lonely..._

I had said to Hell with it. I accept the dance.

Usually, I hate to do such things. I hate to even speak to him because I don't want to give him false hope; because everything about him reminds that I had been forced me into this world in the first place. But he had brought me here today, and despite the presence of a High Lord I am not entirely familiar with nor comfortable with, I have enjoyed myself. I _am_ enjoying myself. And so as Lucien twirls me gently, softly as though I might break, I find I don't hate it as much as I thought I would.

It's not perfect, not at all. I'm not sure if things between him and I ever will be, not that there is a him and I to start with. But...

When I close my eyes and imagine Azriel in the room alongside me, when I imagine that there are _more_ than just the four of us in this room, it gets a little bit easier to relax into his touch. A little more... normal.

I do wish Azriel were here, though. 

And when I open my eyes, I think I see him in the corner of the room. Cloaked in shadow, his expression stern, watchful as if he's assessing the situation, the scenario, the picture of the room—

But when Lucien spins me back into his arms and I look back at that spot where the shadows had swirled, there is nothing there but blackness itself; the natural dark of the room amongst the flickering lights of the candles.

It is all this combined that leads me to decide to stay the night rather than go back to the Night Court. Aurora offers; it isn't my idea. But when she offers to share a bed with me, offers to open up her home to me, the idea of a soft night's sleep within grasp without needing to travel in that sickening way is awfully tempting.

"Yes," I breathe, Aurora's fingers clasped around mine. I have since discovered that she gets very, very affectionate when drunk. "If you don't mind."

Aurora raises her brows and shakes her head, a silent _of course._ With the two of us at the foot of the stairs, we must seem mighty eager to get to bed. But I can feel sleep tugging at my every being, calling to me from upstairs—

"Forcing Tamlin to sleep alone?" Lucien snickers, hidden away in the kitchen. More wine, more wine—I have since stopped. "However will he cope?"

Tamlin growls. "Shut it, Lucien."

Perhaps in a moment of bravery, I turn to look at Tamlin; Tamlin, with his back to the both of us, his head thrown back on the sofa. 

"You don't scare me, you know," I tell him pointedly. Sternly.

Tamlin sighs. He turns to look at me lazily, his intoxication clear—

"You would have nothing to fear from me even if you did."

He moves his gaze from mine and moves to lean back against the sofa once more, and I wonder just how drunk he is. I'm not sure whether to believe him, but...

I saw his defeat. Heard his words. _Be happy, Feyre._

And I realise all of a sudden that I am glad that _he_ is happy. If happiness helps him grow like a seed freshly planted, if he always makes Aurora smile as brightly as she did tonight, I am full of glee for him.

As I turn to look back at Aurora, her face full of concern as her eyes flicker between her mate and myself, I can't help but smile.

"Do you mind if we go now?" I yawn. "I'm terribly tired."

Aurora shakes her head. "Of course not. I'm just the same; I think I might have done too much," she admits somewhat bashfully. Her cheeks are red from either the alcohol or the shame of it; I'm not sure.

"I'm staying, too," Lucien calls from the kitchen. I hear one of the cupboard doors open, and I dread to know what he's doing.

Tamlin growls. "If you think you're sharing a bed with me, you're wrong."

Aurora laughs—giggles—and then she can't stop. I end up laughing softly _at_ her, and it's only once our laughter has died down that we force ourselves upstairs. But as we say goodnight to the males, as I thank Aurora for having me, for letting me stay, as we begin to make our way up the steps... 

I realise that something is wrong. Something is missing. Something I need to do—

"Lucien," I say, turning to face him.

He stops and stares at me at the foot of the stairs, and I wonder if his eyes have always swirled with gold that way. Like the fire from the candles lives within them.

"Elain?" He responds softly, curiously.

It is like we are the only two people in the room, and...

It does not make me comfortable. It should not make me feel this easy.

I do not _want_ it to be easy, I realise. I want it to be difficult, or—no. No, not difficult.

I want it to be natural.

I want to wonder over whether he likes me; I want to steal fleeting glances at him and ponder over the what-ifs, the half-truths, the flirtatious jokes.

I swallow down the lump in my throat at the thought. Swallow it down like hard-to-swallow medicine.

"Thank you for today," I manage to whisper.

Lucien nods. "I'll always be here if you need me, Elain."

And as I nod to him, as I flash him a small smile, I'm not sure I want that promise to remain true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini chapter here! I'm kind of tired so I have no idea whether this is even any good, but I really wanted to capture Lucien and Elain's feelings in some form or another. Regardless of whether it's good or not, I hope you enjoyed it <3


	59. Aurora

Days later, I'm helping the faeries put up Solstice decorations when I feel Tamlin's arms wrap around my waist from behind.

It startles me at first, but then—his scent. It fills my senses so delightfully that one might think it sweet, but no. Petrichor, fresh grass after the morning rain... it's beautiful, one that I would be content to smell forever. Forget the sun spilling through the windows at the end of the hall; forget the distant crashing of waves against the rocks that the palace is nestled upon; never mind the faerie servants around me, garbed in all sorts of festive court garb. It's Tamlin that matters now.

"Love," I greet him, "can I help you?"

The faerie servants that I've been helping to decorate glance over at us and then quickly look away, pretending they don't notice our affection. I spy small smiles on some of their faces, with others flushing brightly as they turn away. It's not like Tamlin's embrace of me is scandalous, but certainly, he doesn't seem to deny his love for me. Neither do I with him.

Tamlin lets out a murmur of content as he buries his nose in my neck. "Am I disturbing you?"

He asks, but I know he doesn't care. Not with that teasing tone of voice.

I roll my eyes. "Solstice is in two days and we only _just_ found these decorations. I'd say it's _vital_ that we put up as many festive pieces that we can find."

Tamlin lets out a huff of laughter as he pulls away from me, and when he turns his attention to the baubles, the gingerbread men—

Tamlin's gaze darkens with something akin to recognition.

"You found these?" He demands, his tone incredulous and jagged. His gaze is glued to the inanimate objects as he asks, "Where?"

Suddenly, I am aware of the faeries' uncertain glances towards my mate. They have seen this all before—

"If you're upset that they're up," I say, my brows rising as my arms fold, "then you discuss it with me. Not them."

Tamlin looks back at me and blinks. Looks back at the decorations and then back at me.

"These were my mother's," he explains.

He turns to properly face them now; moves to brush his fingers against the baubles hanging from vines wrapped around the beams nestled into the ceiling.

"It's been a while since I saw them," the High Lord admits. "It's been a while since I saw Solstice decorations like these in this palace at all, actually."

I blink at him, surprised at the softness in his tone, and then—

I am no longer worried about the way the faeries feel; no longer worried if they are wary of his displeasure. No—how could anyone be wary when there is such peace in his tone, such reminiscence?

"There is another box in the old, ah... I believe it was a nursery?" I ask bashfully. "If you would like to look through them—"

"Yes."

Tamlin looks back at me so fast that the word slips from his lips before his green hues get the chance to look at me.

My smile is soft—and yet so very amused—as I turn to face the faeries; blue-winged and blue skinned children of the woodlands. They have been coming to me more often as of late, and I have always greeted them with kindness and generosity. I wouldn't call them friends, not when I prefer to keep my circle of friends tight, but... they are certainly valued members of this household. And I would hope that they know it.

"Do you think you'll be able to cope without me?" I tease.

One of them, her hair short and cropped and her bangs thick, grins at me from a rickety wooden ladder. Her smile is toothy, jagged—sharp. "We'll do just fine, Lady."

I offer them a smile and a nod in thanks, and then I am nodding towards the hallway to my mate.

We walk in silence, although Tamlin's hand does brush softly against mine in a way that indicates far more than touch but how he feels _inside._ We make our way upstairs, and when we're done trailing through corridors, when the doors to the nursery creak open and we make our way inside...

Tamlin lets out a breath.

The room is west-facing, and in the afternoon, it would allow the evening sun to set a glow about the room not unlike the Dawn Court's own. Five long glass windows line the wall, green and red glass mixed in between the clear, but it's dark in here now; even with the moth-eaten curtains pulled aside, there is a dusty haze to the room that seems to only have alleviated a little bit with the windows I had opened in here earlier.

Tamlin takes a few steps in. Pauses. 

He turns around to face me only once he stands in the middle of the room.

"I had half forgotten this place existed," he admits, looking around once more. There is something unreadable in his eyes. "But being in here now... it brings back many memories."

I inch closer towards him, my skirts swishing on the dusty floors as I pass the adjoined bathroom to the left. "Did you play in here often?"

Tamlin hesitates and then softly shrugs. "My mother read me stories in here. I didn't play often; my father often had our schedules so busy that I hardly knew what that was. But..." he averts his gaze, looking out at the sea beyond the large room. "I hope that our children might play in here some day."

The words, that hope, resonates with me too. I cannot help the smile that refuses to leave my face, not as I wrap an arm around his own and rest my head gently on his shoulder.

"They will," I promise him quietly, tenderly. I take a breath, imagining it—the cradle, the toys, the dollhouse. And again— "They will."

Tamlin seems to relax as if I have alleviated some kind of discomfort I had hardly realised he had been harbouring. His shoulders relax, loosen, and he lowers his head and closes his eyes as if the very thought of our future together brings him peace. For a moment he just stays like that; stays peaceful, calm and quiet. But then—

"Come," he says. My gaze on him is relaxed and content as he continues, "I want to show you something."

I look up with soft eyes, but I do not refuse him as he takes my hand and winnows us to the west wing of the palace. It is a place that I have never been before, have never even had the desire to look at before—

And before I know it, I know just the reason why.

A blanket of magic covers this wing, one so thick I can smell it. Tangy like citrus, refreshing like mint... all at once it fills my senses, so strong that I can almost taste it. One second we are walking, and the next—

The next, we are stood in a greenhouse that borders on enormous.

It steals my breath away as soon as I see the sheer expanse of it. It's wide, glass panels lining the entirety of it, and the sun which trickles lazily into the room makes it seem as though the entire place is half-asleep, ready to be woken up—a sleeping beauty in itself. But perhaps the most impressive part of this greenhouse is the sheer height of it. A glass roof as tall as the third floor of the palace connects to a gold spiral staircase which starts at the floor and leads up to the very top. And the walkway at the top...

It leads to a wider, circular part of the walkway, positioned right below a peak in the roof which rises to a height beyond the third floor entirely. Trails of ivy curl around the beams of the walkway and hide the majority of the circular walkway from view. Below, right before my eyes, lie table upon table of planters; some occupied, some empty. There is a walkway through this greenhouse which is nestled between patches of soil ready to be made use of, too.

I do not hesitate to hide the way my breath slips from my lungs as I say, "Tamlin..."

But no other words come out. This place... although bare, although there are empty containers all about, it is wonderful. Peaceful. A place of work, of distraction, of sanctuary—

"You like it, then," he says.

And although his tone is fairly normal, fairly simple, I can hear the way his lips curve upward when he says it.

I swallow down a lump in my throat. "More than like it. Truly."

I turn to look at my mate as he turns to grin at me, but before I can say anything more, he walks away from me. His attention has now moved from myself and to a bush of triangular looking fruit to our right, red all over aside from the green nestled at the top of it. It's spotted in a strange way that I don't understand; indented with green—

"Strawberries," Tamlin says. He plucks one of them from its branch and turns to face me, his brows raised. "Have you tried these?"

I blink at him, still not entirely recovered from my sense of awe. "I have never even heard of them."

He smirks. "That is because I made them."

I raise my brows in surprise. One male making a fruit; making something new? But I suppose it is not unrealistic, not when Tamlin himself harnesses the power of Spring, of creation, of shapeshifting, himself. And so as I inch closer, it is with an innate curiosity; one which has me wondering if this is going to be something like the truth juice all over again.

"Try it," Tamlin says.

 _Yes,_ I think to myself, _this is certainly like the truth juice._

He raises his brows when I do not make an attempt to move closer to him, and my wings flutter with nervousness at the sight of the red thing between his fingers. He inclines his head, indicates for me to take a few steps closer, and I do.

Tamlin brings the strawberry's redness to my lips; watches me as I take a tentative bite. His eyes are trained on my face, my lips, the entirety of the time. Perhaps there is something sensual about my lips around it, because the way he hungrily looks at me like he wants to devour me certainly reddens my cheeks, moistens that spot between my legs—

"And?" He murmurs, his voice low in that way that indicates hunger. He leans in close, teasing, grinning—

I would let him take me here and now if it were not for something deeper within me; something deeper, something more rational, something that says _wait._

I am breathless when I respond, "It is wonderful."

Indeed, it is delightful; watery and sweet, though in a natural way that does not leave a foul taste in one's belly in the aftermath of eating it.

"Mm," he murmurs, pulling the fruit away from me.

He discards it on the ornate white garden table beside the planters, and my gaze averts to the bush behind him; to the way they look so forbidden, so _perfect._

When Tamlin's hands find my hips, it causes a surge of butterflies in my stomach that I had forgotten were so strong. He spins us; spins me so that we switch positions, so that I am gently pressed against the edge of the table which hosts the planters, the leaves of the plants brushing against my back.

And then he kisses me.

I can't help the moan of content that slips from my lips as I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. I hadn't realised how much I had missed his touch; it's hardly been long, not at all, but returning to his embrace always feels as though we have been apart for years. True, he had been far too worried about me during my cycle to do much more than hold me close to him; true, I had been far too drowsy to do anything more. But now with his lips against mine, with the way he pulls away to brush them against my nose, my cheeks—

"I had this made for you," he whispers against my skin.

My eyes flutter open.

I blink up at him.

"For me?" I whisper, my gaze flickering between his eyes and lips. He made a fruit for _me_?

He nods. "I kept it from you as a glamour, but..." Tamlin shakes his head, looking around. "I want you to have it now."

I blink again, confusion making its home in my head. And then—

Then I understand.

He doesn't just mean the damn strawberry. He means the entire _greenhouse._ Top to bottom, bottom to top, glass pane to glass pane—

For _me._

This place, the entirety of it...

I'm not entirely sure what to think, nor how to feel. Not when he is so close, so tantalisingly tempting; not when the words themselves make my head spin—

I blurt out, "Why?"

Tamlin pulls back a little, his gaze flickering between my eyes and lips. "It was to be our mating present. Mine to you."

My lips part, and there's this feeling in my chest—love, awkwardness, gratitude. "But we didn't... we haven't—"

"I know," Tamlin answers softly. He pauses; averts his gaze. "But I would hope," he says, looking back to me, "that marriage is not too far off."

I stare at him, and then—

I cannot help the grin that slips onto my features. 

"You would have to ask me first."

Tamlin raises a brow.

"Would you accept?"

I bite my lip absent-mindedly, the very question itself tugging at something within me. Only I can't place where—

"If I asked you again," Tamlin asks, his voice low—lower, "would you accept?"

He takes my breath away; takes it away in the sense that my word next is no more than a breath. "Perhaps."

Tamlin's eyes light up with something not unlike excitement. "Then I will—"

"I have conditions."

Tamlin pauses. Blinks.

"Conditions?"

"Yes."

He stares at me, his lips parted in surprise—

And then he leans forward and groans into my chest, his fingers finding my hips.

"I am trying to ask you to marry me," he moans, "and you are giving me conditions. You are giving your mate _conditions._ "

I can't help but laugh at his dramatics. "And you will accept them if you want me as your wife," I respond, my voice melodic; light. My fingers tangle in his soft blonde locks absent-mindedly. "Believe me—I _want_ to be your wife. But that want does not mean that it overcomes my needs."

Tamlin looks up at me; raises a brow. "Your needs."

"Yes." And then, after a pause— "I want to travel. I want to see the world on my own, to... to discover more of myself along the way."

I can feel him tense; tense at the thought of me leaving. _Endangering_ myself. I wrap my arms around him in an attempt to soothe him, but it only does so much. He straightens, pulling gently away from my hold.

"Rora—"

"Tamlin, this is not a request. This is a condition. A _demand._ "

He presses his lips together and begins a half-pace that radiates irritation, stress, anxiety. I wonder if he is imagining all the terrible things that could happen to me while I'm away. His eyes are far away and his brows are furrowed as he glares out of the glass panes of the greenhouse, and he clasps his hands together for some reason—perhaps to stop them shaking, or maybe to stop the claws from slipping free?

I step forward. "Tamlin—"

He closes his eyes. "You will be hurt. Somehow. _Something_ will go wrong."

I frown. "With an attitude like that, you're inviting it."

He growls in frustration and turns away from me, making his way across the room to a table at the opposite end of the room; one which looks like it should host planter after planter. Instead it's empty, revealing just how new this place truly is. Tamlin moves his hands to splay against the table, and I can see the tension gather between his shoulders as he hangs his head; as he allows the weight of his thoughts to bury him down deep.

I pad over to him, the soft material of my slippers brushing against the smooth marble floor. Slowly, tenderly, I move my fingers to splay against his shoulders, a feeble attempt at reassuring him—

"I can't lose you, Aurora," he says weakly.

"I know," I whisper. I keep rubbing, keep soothing—

"I can't lose anyone else."

 _I know,_ I want to say again. _I know._ Because no matter how many times I tell him that I won't leave, that nobody could ever pull me away... I don't think he'll believe it. He has seen too much, so much so that it must all seem so fresh to him. Only recently he was living in ruin in a forgotten manor with only his anger and self-pity to keep him going, and only recently was he able to find salvation. I will never blame him for what he feels; never refuse to tell him that I love him.

And so when Tamlin turns to look at me with those dead, dreading eyes—

I do what I did the first time I brought life back to him.

I make him _glow._

And as the room brightens around us, I see the best of that light flicker within my mate's green-and-gold flecked hues. I see the tension slowly dissipate from his body as though it falls drip by drip. And finally... finally, when that sigh of relief slips from his lips, when his eyes close, I wrap my arms around him. And I do not let go.

"I will come back," I whisper. "And I won't go alone."

Tamlin's arms wrap around me. "Will you consider taking guards?"

I pause, and then I nod. "Yes." _I'm not stupid enough to believe that there won't be trouble._

The tension in his shoulders seems to dissipate somewhat. "Cora?" 

I pause, and then I shake my head. "Perhaps not."

Cora is my best friend, but she is too protective. No—I want somebody who is willing to risk just a _little_ danger. For the fun of it.

And I know exactly the males to take with me.

Tamlin pulls away to look at me, his gaze curious, and then it darkens. "Not _Aidos,_ Aurora. Surely."

My lips curve upward as I look up at him in amusement. I don't mean Aidos, certainly not, although I _have_ been meaning to speak to him lately. No—none of that matters when the look in my mate's eye is so protective, because although his temper is feared by many, there is a part of it that makes me feel _safe._ His _power_ makes me feel safe. Protected. 

"Jealousy certainly doesn't suit you, my love," I tell him. "You already have enough green in your outfit."

To my surprise, Tamlin laughs. It's a genuine laugh, not just a huff or a noise—no. It's a sound like music to my ears.

"You," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, "are the light of my life in more ways than one."

I smile up at him; lean up to press a kiss to his nose. And when my arms are tight around his waist once more, when I feel him steal my breath away again—

"Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you for the greenhouse. I love it very much."

Tamlin is quiet for a moment. "You're welcome."

"It is to be both of ours? Only ours?"

Tamlin's murmur of approval is answer enough, but he verbalises his words when he says, "I had planned on keeping the magic around it, yes. For it to be just ours; ours and whoever we allow into it."

I pull back, smiling as I look back up at him. "Our sanctuary."

Tamlin gives me a soft half smile. "Our sanctuary."

He fiddles with a curl of golden blonde at my shoulder, and then he averts his gaze to the walkway above. I can see the wheels of his mind turning, thinking, turning—

And as a smirk lines his lips, I wonder just what he's got planned up there.

What he might be hiding.

What's hiding beyond those pillars entwined with ivy.

"Now," he teases, glancing down at me with mischief in his eyes, "I think it's time to show you the rest of your present."

And as my lips part, as he takes my hand and begins to lead me up the spiral steps, I do not dread it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm now in quarantine because a colleague of mine has Covid, and honestly I probably have it too. While I'm feeling fine, expect more chapter updates!
> 
> Also, would you guys like a schedule of updates again or is posting whenever one is complete good for you? Please let me know.
> 
> Happy holidays!
> 
> P.S. I aimed to get a Solstice chapter out tomorrow, but I thought up a few chapters to write before that. Hope you don't mind a late Solstice chapter! :)
> 
> P.P.S (?) The strawberries are for Jess. You're welcome, Jess.


	60. Tamlin

Yesterday has left me empty in the same way that I am full.

Full of love for Aurora. Full of... hope. I want to see the future. It is a future with Aurora that I must have.

I know what the next steps are. She had just as good as confirmed that she will accept if I propose again, properly this time, and because of that...

I know where I need to go.

And so, with one last glance to my peacefully sleeping mate, beautiful as she lies swathed under thick velvet covers, I winnow out of the bedroom... and to the darkest part of Spring.

Torunn's hut is a place where I dread to venture to even now. The creatures here are no match for my power, not at all, but they certainly are a nuisance if one runs into them. But Torunn... she is just as powerful as me. She is a being in her own right; a being with a power which is separate to that of the High Lords.

She is a witch―though not one of this world.

And this place, her home, is silent. Deafeningly so.

This part of my court is not my doing, but part of it calls out to me. I know there is darkness within me; it snarls and claws and wishes to break free. But at the same time, the darkness here...

It repulses me. It is a reminder of all the things I do not want to become; all the things in me that, of late, I have pushed back.

So I make my way towards Torunn's hut quickly and quietly, and I do not look back.

From the outside, it looks more the burrow of a wild animal than anything. But it is the decorations on the outside that mark it out as a place which is home to something other than a beast. Windchimes, flowerbeds, pots and pots of plants... it sings of a brighter side of Spring, one long forgotten by this hut's owner, and the plants here seem to glisten and sparkle with life. It is a sort of magic different to my own.

I do not knock when I enter her hut. Not because the door seems just as rickety as its old walls, not because I want to scare her―no. It is because she will have known I'm here from the moment I winnowed in.

The light within is warm and musty, a song of candlelight and dimness that rings out throughout the entirety of the cottage. It is, by all means, a mess―but Torunn has always been messy, messily organised, though you would not think so from how pristine she had always looked at court. But now...

Now, she has let that messiness overcome her. 

The entirety of the space is littered with old bookcases, rickety tables, and shelf upon shelf of mysterious looking objects. Spell jars, herb jars; mirrors, bowls, fluids and oils; small pebbles marked with runes that are foreign to my eye. And Torunn has almost become an inanimate object herself... because I almost miss her as my eyes scour the room in search of her.

She is nestled into the back of the hut as she stares blankly into the darkness. And despite the twigs in her hair, despite her dishevelled state, she radiates power. Strength.

She is ancient in the sense that I'm not even sure she's of this world.

"Torunn," I say firmly, my tone radiating strength.

The figure at the other end of the hut looks up at me slowly, and then she narrows her eyes on me.

"So you have returned. Finally. It has been long enough."

And slowly, menacingly, she emerges from the shadow at the other end of the room.

And though her ears are rounded, although she is not, exactly, High Fae... she looks exactly the same as she did all those centuries ago.

Her hair seems to shimmer in the candlelight, red and wavy, and while her blue eyes had once been so cold they had reminded me of the frosty lands of the Winter Court, they're dark now; dark and black. Her skin is pale as snow, so much so that she looks like she stepped out of the coldest court entirely. Often, I asked her if she was from there as a child; often, I was met with soft chuckles and vague answers. It was my brothers who had told me the truth, or at least the most popular rumour that had circulated around our court: she is other-worldly in the most literal sense of the word. In her time, she had been considered something akin to a god.

And then she had been trapped. Cursed. Something along those lines. _Something_ had led her to our world, after all, and I still do not understand how she came to be here. I'm not sure if she'll ever explain.

But despite her beauty, that frown she greets me with is just as deadly as I remember. She is both powerful and beautiful, ancient and youthful, and she carries herself in the same way that my mother had―the same regal way, only with more confidence than Daphne Oldthorne had ever had. My father had weighed my mother's shoulders down in their later years, and Torunn...

Torunn's confidence, her boldness, has never faded.

"What is it you want, little lordling?" She purrs.

Her arms fold, and the dull grey of her dress seems to only shift with the shadow; makes her all the more a part of it.

I open my mouth to speak, and then―

She sniffs the air.

And smiles.

"I think I _know_ what you came for. Your mother's ring, no?"

I frown at her. "How do you know that?"

Torunn shrugs. "I can smell love on you. A bit of lust, too. Although it has thankfully waned in strength on your journey here."

My frown deepens as I avert my gaze, because for once, I do not wish to comment on mine and Aurora's relationship. I know very well that all that the words that will come from Torunn's mouth will either be teasing in nature or that of the biting sort, and I am not in the mood for it. No―I am here to retrieve my mother's ring, to gift it to my beloved; for that ring to mean something _good,_ something...

Something new.

Torunn comments slyly, "I hear you have renovated your mother's palace, too. Does that have something to do with this... lover?"

I don't look at her. The dirt floor is far more interesting. "Yes."

Torunn inquires unashamedly, "Why?"

I look back at her quickly, sharply, my look jagged and unwelcoming. "You know very well why." And then― "I did not see you at my last wedding, Torunn."

Torunn shrugs. "A love borne of a curse was doomed to fail."

I growl at her in frustration, because her words, in truth, sting. "Is that your excuse?" I demand. "I had cared for you once as a mother."

Torunn's gaze as she looks back at me is steely. "Is _that_ why you haven't visited me in decades?"

I roll my eyes, averting my attention to some dried rosemary on the counter not too far away. I take a few steps over to it; feel the parched leaves between my fingers.

I haven't visited the witch since the curse was placed upon my court by Amarantha. I had hoped that Torunn might be able to help, might be able to break it, but it seems there were limits to even Torunn's power.

I had not believed her, in truth. I had thought she would want to teach me a lesson; that she _wanted_ me and my court to suffer.

I am not entirely sure she didn't mean such a thing now, to be truthful. I saw her do incredible things as a youngling myself; terrible, unbelievable things. And the fact that she chose to dwell in the very place those dark creatures doing Amarantha's bidding had only convinced me that she would one day choose to side with her too; that she would one day betray my mother and everything she had ever―

"Do you truly love this one?" Torunn asks.

I turn to look at her, irritation shining in my gold-flecked hues. "Yes. She is my mate―"

"Your mother was your father's mate. That did not turn out well for either of them."

I glare at her, and then I stop myself...

Because she's right.

I close my eyes, averting my gaze before I reopen them.

"Yes," I say, "I love her. She has brought life back to Spring; to _me._ I think I would love her even if she was not my mate."

Torunn is quiet for a moment, and then―

"Mm," she hums.

She moves across the room to sit in a rickety old armchair that she sinks deep into, and the scratchy woollen fabric of her dress seems to pool around her and swallow her whole.

Torunn observes the dirt under her fingernails as she says, "Your mother told me not to give the ring to you unless I could truly sense it in you. Love."

I gape at her, turning to look at her incredulously. "And you cannot sense it in me? Torunn, please―"

Torunn's icy gaze snaps up to me, and her brows rise. "Begging?" She observes. "That _is_ a new low for you, High Lord."

She is right, and I certainly hate it. It is an insult to my pride, and yet―

And yet I will not dare threaten this woman. I would not lay a hand on her. Call it the history between us; call it respecting my mother's fondness for her; call it awareness of this person's power. But it does not change the fact that I am more than willing to beg for that ring; shamefully so.

And if not...

If not, I would procure it another way.

I think Torunn knows it, too.

It's only a matter of time before she yields. This is a game, and it is one she knows she has already lost.

I won the second I stepped through the door, in truth.

"I will not lay a hand on you," I say darkly, quietly. "Not for the ring. My mother would forbid it. I am asking you; begging you. I must have it. I will not rest if Aurora does not―"

"Fine," Torunn groans, tilting her head back in annoyance.

I blink at her, surprised, and I watch as Torunn's head remains tilted back―

And hides her face.

She hides it for a reason I understand very well.

She had loved my mother. She had loved her in more ways than a friend. And when my father had stopped caring for my mother entirely, Daphne Oldthorne had loved Torunn back―

Perhaps my mother had loved Torunn more than she could ever love my father.

And slowly, slowly, it all sinks in.

"You wish not to part with it," I observe softly.

Torunn tilts her head forward to look at me, and for the longest time she is quiet. And then―

"Would it change your desire to claim it from me if I said yes?"

There is silence from me, too, as I think over the question for a second. A second alone; that is how long it takes me to make my decision.

"No."

Bitterly, Torunn laughs. "So I thought."

The witch stands, her red hair ablaze in the glow of the candlelight, and she narrows her eyes on me before swiftly making her way to a room in the back. I do not follow; rather, I try to listen to her movements, rummaging, searching―

And then silence.

An exhale of breath.

And when Torunn emerges into the main room again, it is with a velvet green box in hand.

"Here," she says―

And holds it out to me.

And yet despite the fact that it is there, that she is offering it to me, I do not want to take it. Not yet.

"What do you want in return?" I ask her.

I ask the question without truly understanding _why_ I ask it in the first place.

It is not like me to be generous. Not at all. 

My mother always did say Torunn brought out the unexpected in her.

Torunn only stares at me blankly. I look up at her from the box and there is a hint of confusion in her face; a hint of surprise―

"You are offering me a trade?"

I swallow. "Yes." _Although I don't know what to give you at all._

I am afraid, for a moment, that she might ask the impossible of me; that I might have damned myself into another curse.

"I have nothing I need from you," Torunn answers plainly, and I withhold my sigh of relief.

She opens the box a second later, and I cannot help but stare.

A brilliant emerald, green as a lake in the glow of the sun, is nestled in a cradle of gold sat atop the ring itself. It is beautiful; perhaps not as grandiose as it could be, for it is without diamonds or other gems, but... its history, its age, speaks for itself. And as Aurora had once told me she loves history, loves all things ancient, and as I suspect she would love its sentimental value, I know for a fact that it is perfect.

Would some clear diamond be any better? No. This green... both our futures are held within it. Spring, my court; Aurora's home. Aurora's court.

And some day, it will mean the same thing to our children, too.

I take the box from Torunn. Her skin is warm even despite the chill to her appearance.

"I wish you happiness, Tamlin," she says quietly.

I look up at her; give her my best attempt at a smile... but I am not sure how successful it is.

Because despite my love for Aurora, despite my hope for our future together, something about leaving Torunn here in this dark pit seems...

Wrong.

"Thank you," I say nonetheless. Wrong, wrong, wrong, even as I turn towards the door―

And with my fingers on the handle, I turn to face her.

"Return to the palace," I say to her.

Torunn only huffs with laughter, averting her gaze with a shake of her head, and then― "No."

I could ask why; I could demand an explanation.

I know well enough, however.

Primrose Palace... it is the same to Torunn as Rosehall is to me, I suppose.

I stare at Torunn for a moment, my green hues piercing, assessing, and then―

I lower my head and nod.

"Good day, Torunn," I murmur quietly.

It is not a happy sound.

I cannot place how I am feeling as I close the door to her hut behind me, and I do not even bother to enter the woods surrounding it before I winnow right back to Primrose Palace; to my home.

And as the sun sparkles over my head again, as the birds chirp with the early morning dawn and begin their wake up song, when the grass is soft and moist under my feet, I try to put Torunn in the back of my mind. 

Forget Torunn. Forget whatever emotion she had stirred up within me.

Tomorrow, on Solstice, I will propose to Aurora.

Tomorrow, on Solstice, our future begins―

And it cannot come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're only a few chapters away from the end now! Never fear, though: I'm planning a sequel in addition to plotting more chapters for A Court of Thorns and Starlight. I actually worked on ACOTAS today :)
> 
> Let me know what you liked about this chapter! What do you guys think of Torunn? Any hints on just who she could be? I'll certainly be dropping more of them in the following chapters!
> 
> Hope you guys had a wonderful Christmas xxx


	61. Aurora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late Solstice chapter! Sorry about that. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!

I wake on Solstice morning with a groan—mostly because there are maids pawing at my face, begging for me to wake up.

I mutter a half-cohesive word at them, turn over in my bed, and wish desperately for one more hour of sleep. Tamlin and I had stayed up far too late last night; we had drank together, danced together, and when we had fallen in bed together, we had not been able to keep our hands off one another. If I hadn't stopped it, I'm certain we would have gone all the way, but... while part of my body had yearned for him inside of me, there is a part of me that says it will not feel right until we are married.

Call me traditional; perhaps Tamlin's tendency to be that way has rubbed off on me. Or perhaps I am just afraid to let somebody be  _ that  _ intimate with me,  _ that  _ close to the bareness of me—

But despite my reluctance, I know that Tamlin and I have an itinerary. And, despite my sleepiness, I know we must stick to it.

So slowly, gradually, I sit up in bed; tediously, I swing my legs over the side and roll my shoulders, stretching my wings. They shudder with the movement, feathers soft and warm in comparison to the cool temperature of the room. And when I am out of bed, when I feel a smidgeon more awake, I bathe; my maids scrub me until my skin is red, pour warm water over my sensitive wings, and I think I might just be content to fall asleep in the tub—if they would let me.

Of course, Tamlin is nowhere near. He's likely preparing for the day himself, or—no. He's an early riser; he'll be awake already. He likely sent these very maids to wake me. No doubt he's already awake, already bathed, already tending to duties in that restless way of his. And so as my maids pamper me until my face begins to ache, my only thought is on him—on our night before, as well as the day ahead.

And I do not know how I am going to manage looking at him after last night. After yearning for him. After forcing ourselves to part to our own bedrooms in preparation for the early rise we both expect.

I close my eyes as my maids work on my hair, and when I open them again, my only focus is on the work of art they've managed to create. With my golden hair tucked into a bun at the back of my head, it leaves two face framing pieces loose at the front, perfectly—and naturally—curled. I choose a red dress, festive in colour—one of Tamlin's mother's, the material rich in both fabric and weight. The maids even don the tops of my wings with that special gold paint, the kind that is more than favourable in the Dawn Court... and when I look in the mirror, I think I look positively festive.

We add a few final touches to my outfit before I am ushered out of my room, and I barely get the chance to see the door snap shut behind me before my maids, giggling, near-chase me down the hall. I am amused and yet baffled at their delight for this day; I had been under the impression that Spring did not celebrate Solstice like the other courts, and yet…

Perhaps it is the brightest, most hopeful Solstice they have had in a long time. 

I cannot blame them for their joy.

Tamlin is pacing at the foot of the stairs when I appear at the top of them. To my delight, he has picked out a doublet that nearly matches mine perfectly; his doublet is a rich, deep green decorated with geraniums which swirl up from the bottom of it, their colour almost the same shade as the red of my dress. He looks stunning as always; his hair glistens gold, his eyes sharp and keen. He is the picture of perfection.

"No time even for presents?" I call down to him with a grin, my brows rising pointedly.

Tamlin turns to face me, and then he takes me in bit by bit.

For a silent moment, he is seemingly too stunned to answer. Those green-and-gold hues darken, flicker with lust, and then— 

"All in due course," he responds, his shoulders straightening. "We have a schedule."

I tilt my head, maintaining an aura of innocence. One step, two— "No compliments for the dress?"

Slowly, Tamlin's lips curve into an amused smirk. "For the dress alone? No. But for you... you look breath-taking, Lady Aurora."

My lips quirk upwards as I teasingly respond, "That sounded difficult to spit out."

The curve that Tamlin's lips have formed into falters, and his gaze darkens once more. "I can think of things that are more difficult."

Another step, another— "Oh?" I ask teasingly, brows raised suggestively.

Tamlin nods, his gaze travelling down my form once more. "Something harder."

I let out a laugh then; I can't help it. "You would know all about _ hard _ ship, wouldn't you?"

He growls at me. "Do not tease me on Solstice."

"Tsk. I am truly," I tease, my voice low, "truly sorry, Lord."

I reach the bottom step with a grin on my face, and Tamlin does not hesitate for his fingers to find my waist as his claws to slip out. I love him like this—dangerous, possessive in the best of ways.

"Careful," I purr, my arms wrapping around his neck. "Don't ruin the dress."

Tamlin does not care for the servants milling about the hallway as he leans in and presses a kiss to my neck. I let out a breath in response to the feel of it, my head tilting backwards—

He mumbles against my skin, "No promises."

Cora calls from the large double doors at the end of the hall, “Will you two stop fondling each other and get on your damn horses?"

I roll my eyes, and I don't hesitate to make eye contact with her even as Tamlin remains buried in my neck. She isn’t garbed in anything festive today; she wears that same white-and-gold armour, that same braid which falls down her shoulder and covers one of her pauldrons. She does, however, look restless.

I respond, "Did you forget your patience today, Cora?"

She glowers at me. "When your High Lord entrusts me with guard duty, I intend to do my best. Now come on. Let's go."

I let out a huff of laughter and step back, pulling gently out of Tamlin's grasp. And when Tamlin looks up at me with regret in his face, regret that we must part from one another, I do not hesitate to lean forward and give him a soft kiss.

"Happy Solstice, my love," I whisper quietly against his lips.

Tamlin lets out a rumble of satisfaction as he leans his forehead against mine. "Happy Solstice, Aurora."

An audible sigh sounds from Cora at the other end of the hall. "Mother's tits, I already need a drink."

***

Sperover looks just the same as it usually does.

That is  _ until  _ one delves deeper into the city.

From the outside, it looks like every other day in Spring: bright and beautiful, vibrant and alive. Citizens waltz to and fro as they tend to their daily duties; some even wave to Tamlin and myself as we pass on our horses, receiving a nod from their High Lord and a gracious smile from myself. But it is when we begin to make our way towards the marketplace for the celebrations there that things  _ really  _ start to pick up.

There, we are followed in the street by children; there, we are greeted with cheers as well as smiles. I feel completely undeserving of their love as our horses come to a stop before one of the many entrances to the marketplace, and I cannot believe my eyes at the sight of it. Poles have been set up all around the town square, and the flower garlands attached to them all connect to the large fountain which streams with water at the centre of it. Small spaces have been decorated with mistletoe, and I spy some couples giving one another quick kisses under them as a band plays off in the distance. Fiddle, lyre, harp—it all merges into one beautiful blend of sound which accommodates our surroundings perfectly.

When I turn to look at Tamlin, he is looking over at them with a strange look in his eye. One that I cannot place.

“Should we dismount, Lord?” I ask.

Tamlin hesitates a moment before looking back at me, and his smile is soft—and yet strangely terse—as he nods.

We dismount and our horses are quickly led to water and food, but there is no need to worry about them when Tamlin’s hand intertwines with my own. My smile is soft now; soft as I gaze across at him, as butterflies swirl about in my stomach at being so close to him, at something so  _ romantic— _

The townspeople place flower crowns on our heads before I realise what’s happening, and I cannot help the laughter that follows after.

After some mingling, after saying  _ hello _ and  _ Happy Solstice _ to the townspeople, it is time to take our seats. Because although the townspeople are glad to see us, it is not us they have come to see. No—these people are here for one of the newest members of the Spring Court.

Their new High Priestess.

Tamlin had told me that it was custom in his court for himself and his family to attend a Solstice ceremony each year, at least before Amarantha. So when that had started up again, when Lesedi had confirmed that the ceremony would go ahead, I had hardly denied him my attendance—not when it is up to us to ensure that this High Priestess is good and pure. 

Not when it is a chance to truly feel like a family with my mate, even if it is just the two of us that makes it. Not if I can wrap my arm around his, lean my head on his shoulder, hold him close under the Mother’s light—-

Not when it is our responsibility to see that the High Priestess remains pure.

And, in truth, she does a very good job of it.

Considering that this is her first time presenting to a crowd, she is perfect—enthusiastic and  _ believable,  _ too. And though I have not been a loyal follower of the Mother myself, not like the townspeople around me, there is a certain beauty in the way that she raises her arms up and calls out to the Mother to protect this town. There is beauty in the way that she believes it. And when it is time to go, I almost find myself regretting having to leave Priestess Lesedi’s presence.

She is nervous as I approach her once the townspeople start to disperse from the dais, and she is nervous even despite the smile I flash her in greeting. In truth, I do not blame her—not after what I had put the other females through on that day in the Great Hall. I need to keep her somewhat fearful, too, in order to keep her in line. But I do not wish for her to be afraid.

“You did wonderfully, Lesedi,” I tell her kindly, truthfully. Your words were beautiful.”

Lesedi’s dark complexion flushes red. “It was simply the words from the sermon book the High Lord gifted the temple, Lady. Nothing special.”

I narrow my eyes on her in the kindest of ways. “Consider  _ yourself  _ special, then. Those words sounded as if they were your own. I am proud that we picked you for our court, Lesedi,” I say, my fingers gently finding her shoulder to give her blue-robed form a soft squeeze. “Remember that.”

And with the small smile she gives me in response, I hope she believes it. I watch as her attention is demanded from the townspeople; one over there, one over here—

“There is mistletoe over there,” Tamlin murmurs teasingly as he approaches from behind, his arms wrapping around my waist. “Perhaps we should go and make the most of it.”

Softly, I laugh. “Mistletoe? Whatever do you mean?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

I blink at him a nd Tamlin grins. 

_ Oh, this cannot be good.  _

He releases me from his hold only to take my hand in his own, and within seconds he is leading me down the steps of the dais and towards the centre of the town square. He pulls me to a stop under one of the many flower chains, pointing to the mistletoe above—

“A kiss under the mistletoe is reserved only for one’s love,” he grins at me. “It is an old tradition in Spring. One that dates back to my father’s ruling.”

And with music and laughter surrounding us, he kisses me—

He kisses me and I kiss him back with a grin, and the cheer from the townspeople makes me flush a violent red.

If they are like this now, what will they be like when we marry?

***

“Wait,” I say, pulling my horse to a stop. “I want to stop off somewhere before we return.”

Tamlin eyes me as we make our way back through the town, ready to head back to the palace. An hour and a half—we have that long before we must travel to the Dawn Court, an hour and a half until we must return there since the first time I left. Tamlin hesitates before he pulls his own mount to a stop, and I note the soft frown on his face as he does so. But if he has any objections, he does not voice them.

“Where?” He asks simply instead.

Softly, I shrug. “Follow me.”

I lead him through the city, towards the docks, and I do not stop until we are outside Bron and Hart’s house. The two-story building is built of pale stone reinforced with dark wood, just like many of the other houses in the city, and there is a basket of peonies growing from one of the upstairs window sills. I haven’t been here before; I hadn’t even known where they lived before Cora had told me. I am here for a reason, though, and I do not offer Tamlin an explanation as I dismount from my horse; as I make my way up the steps which lead to their front porch.

I knock softly on the door. I hear movement inside, muffled through the walls, and then—

As the door opens, the expression of annoyance on Hart's face is quickly overcome with dread. And then—surprise.

"Lady Aurora?" He says, his voice full of awe and curiosity.

It is not long until Bron appears in view behind him, not with my name made audible. Hart, with his black hair and brilliant eyes, looks just the same as usual… but it is Bron that looks the most festive, garbed in a colourful velvet green outfit. He looks like he’s dressed up to go somewhere.

Softly, I smile. "Bron. Hart. Happy Solstice."

The two nod. Bron says, "And yourself. Is everything—?"

I hear Tamlin dismount from his horse behind me, and Hart's gaze is drawn to him in an instant. What are they thinking—what could be going through their heads? 

"I wanted to give you both gifts," I smile at them. Thankfully, their attention averts back to me.

Hart gapes at me. "Gifts?"

From behind me, Tamlin says, "She would buy gifts for half the town if she knew them personally.” 

He makes his way up the steps to their porch at a steady pace; not too fast, just like a predator encroaching on another's territory—

Tamlin continues with a shrug, "I do not try to meddle in the antics of females and their gifts.”

I roll my eyes at his words but I do not resist as Tamlin comes to a stop beside me, intertwining his fingers in mine. With a wave of my free hand I magick the very presents intended for them into my palm, neatly wrapped and balanced on top of the other.

“They are not mere gifts,” I smile at the sentries. “They are invitations to the party we are throwing tomorrow. And since I am inviting you personally, neither of you have an excuse not to attend."

Hart opens his mouth to speak, but it is Bron that gets there first.

"We’re to stand guard?" Bron blinks.

"No," I smile. “You’re to attend as guests. As friends."

Friends—that's what they will be to me one day. I insist on it.

The two males stare at me open-mouthed, their gazes occasionally shifting to Tamlin. I hand them their gifts, and, still looking just as shocked, they take them. 

“Lady,” Bron says, “this is most gracious.”

I open my mouth to speak, but it is Tamlin that speaks first. “Well,” he says, “Happy Solstice to you both, but we are on a tight schedule. Aurora?”

He looks across at me; I smile at him before looking back to the males before me. “Happy Solstice, Hart. Bron.”

Bron merely gapes while Hart manages to flash me a smile; strange, considering that it is usually the other way around. Tamlin and I make to leave and he pulls me closer as we make our way down the steps. I wonder if it is the same Solstice spirit that makes him so affectionate, or perhaps some sort of territorial male thing I don’t understand—

"Lord Tamlin," Hart says. "Wait. Please."

Tamlin pauses, tense, and then he turns.  _ We  _ turn.

Hart clears his throat. "I wanted to tell you that I understand."

Tamlin just tilts his head, a silent order to continue.

"I... Bron and I are mates," Hart admits. "The bond snapped a few days ago. So I wanted to say I understand."

I gape at them. “Mates!” I beam. “Oh, congratulations!”

But Tamlin—

Tamlin nods, deep and low. Understanding, thankful, far more solemn than I.

I realise in that moment that it’s not  _ just  _ a nod; not  _ just  _ a piece of information that Hart tells him. Hart, hardened even more-so than Cora; Hart, blunt and strong, understands Tamlin’s love for me; understands that things are different now. Different to how they had been with Feyre.

And although it doesn’t make anything that happened in the old Spring Court better, it could certainly be the start of a new beginning.

Mates.

Mates—lovers.

I could not be more happy for them.

And so as Tamlin and I mount our horses once more and say our goodbyes, I cannot help but turn back to them with a knowing grin as we leave.

Bron, in the doorway of his home, gives me a wink.

***

“Marry me,” Tamlin says.

My eyes widen as I blink at him, and in the middle of our living room, I stop still. We have only just made it through the front door of Primrose palace; we have not even sat down on the plush velvet sofas in the middle of the room. But with the light streaming through the windows, casting a heavenly glow about the room, my mate does not even look phased. Dishevelled. The most I can see in his eyes is yearning; a  _ need  _ to be closer. It is as if we have been here for hours, milling about in one another's company.

The shock on my face must be as evident as his nerves, because in the next instant he is speaking, his tone fast-paced and nervous—

“I cannot wait any more,” he admits, shaking his head. “I have been trying to resist the temptation to ask you all day. I had planned to do it in the Dawn Court, but Mother above, you are so beautiful—”

Tamlin Oldthorne gets down on one knee, and my heart jumps to my stomach. 

Or is my heart in my throat? I can’t tell, can’t tell, can’t tell—-all I know is that there is  _ something  _ swarming about in there, something sweeter than nerves, something yearning yearning _ loving—  _

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes. Yes! I’ll marry you.”

Tamlin pauses. Looks up at me.

“You’ll—”

Slowly, slowly, he grins. 

“But you haven’t even seen the ring yet!” He laughs. 

_ Laughs.  _ I have not heard a sound so beautiful, so joyous, in weeks—

I cannot help the laugh that spills from my lips, too. “Then pull it out and show me!”

Another laugh, another choked sound of glee, and  _ oh _ —

The ring he pulls from his doublet is  _ beautiful. _

I cannot help the squee that slips from my lips as I extend my fingers towards him. Gold in its base with a brilliant stone of emerald green in the centre, it is beautifu; jagged and beautiful, as if it was pulled from the earth beneath the Spring Court itself. There is no softness to this jewel; it is jagged like the Oldthorne family, sharp like their past, pointed like their pride—

I have never wanted to wear a piece of jewellery more. I have never felt more  _ suited  _ to a piece of jewellery more.

I am no longer the youngling I started this journey as. I have not been she for a long time. And this jewel…

It is as much a part of me now as it is this family.

He slips the ring on my finger and—

Oh. 

Oh, I have never felt more complete.

And when Tamlin stands, my arms wrap around him tight.  _ Tight.  _ Tight as if I never wish to let go.

“I love you,” Tamlin chokes. His fingers find my hair as he pulls me close; so close that his face is buried in my hair. I swear I could burst with joy right here right now—

“I love you,” I whimper, pulling him tight. Tighter even still.

Another laugh; another choked sound filled with  _ glee.  _ “You are to be my wife. My  _ wife.  _ Aurora, I—”

He pulls from me and kisses me, and—

And I glow.

The room fills with light until it is not just me that is glowing but Tamlin, too; Tamlin in his true form, bright and radiant and beautiful and—

Mine.

Mine alone. Mine forever. Mine to be.

I am not just  _ in _ love—

I  _ am  _ love. Whole and true.

And in this moment, nothing could break my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY... THEY'RE ENGAGED!!!
> 
> We are nearing the end of the fanfic, so I just wanted to say thank you so so much for all the support and love you have given to me over the course of this story. I WILL be writing a sequel (and then one after that, ACOTAS) so we 100% will see more of them in the future. Please feel free to join the ACOSAV discord server if you want to interact with other readers (and myself, of course!)
> 
> P.S. There was a hint towards who Torunn is in this chapter! Remember, she's from our world... I'd love to hear your thoughts as to who she could be!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated <3


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